The Parent Trap
by OccasionallyCreative
Summary: Twins Emma and Imogen were separated as babies when their parents, Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper, divorced. After the two meet again at a summer camp, they begin plotting to reunite their estranged parents.
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER:** Characters of Sherlock are not mine, and property of the BBC and the main story is the property of filmmakers of "The Parent Trap" (1998). I am naught but a humble player in the game of fanfiction and like to write fluffy AUs for my OTPs.

* * *

Of course it wasn't meant to last. It had been too much, too young. They'd burned the candle at both ends—so it was no wonder they'd ended up with scorched fingers. Molly sighed and lazily pulled the ring from her wedding finger.

"We're not even divorced yet," he said from behind her. "That's a bit pre-emptive, don't you think?"

She turned and against her better judgement, her heart leapt a little. Even the anger she felt at him didn't detract the fact that he was deathly handsome with that smirk on his face. God, but she could fall in love with him all over again. She could, but she wouldn't.

"Twelve months, I've kept this ring on. I think it's time you got it back," she said, swallowing slightly as her fingertips brushed against his skin as she dropped the ring into his open palm. He smiled, but the cold pain in his eyes was tangible.

"Very well. I suppose we had best get on with it."

* * *

Sherlock sighed and trudged up the stairs to 221b. His bad mood only increased when he saw that Mycroft was sat on the sofa and carefully twirling his umbrella between his fingers as he always did.

"Brother," he grumbled, picking up his violin and sitting in his armchair. There was a moment of silence between the two brothers, where all that could be heard were Sherlock's calloused hands gently picking at the strings of his violin.

"It was quick and painless, I hope."

"You don't hope, Mycroft. You know."

"Indeed I do," he said quietly before directing his gaze towards his brother. "You plan on staying here, I believe. Are you quite sure that's wise, considering?"

"Considering what?"

Mycroft let out a sigh and a small shrug. "Memories. She did live here after all."

"Much to your chagrin," Sherlock said. He couldn't help but smile at the memory a little. On hearing that his young brother had decided to marry, Mycroft's eyebrows had arched upwards and his only remark had been to remind Sherlock how upsetting it would be to their dear Mummy. At the time, Sherlock couldn't have cared one iota about what Mummy thought, or what Mycroft thought either. Of course they'd disapprove. Anyway, at the time, Sherlock's mind had been on other matters—the "other matters" being, of course, her. His one true love (or so he had thought).

Now… now, he was sitting in 221b Baker Street a divorced man with a three month old lying asleep in his bedroom.

"You'll ruin her, you know," Mycroft said idly. Sherlock aimed a glare at him, and he unfolded himself from the chair and moved towards his bedroom. He heard Mycroft follow suit, but he chose to ignore it. Instead, he entered into the bedroom and stepped towards the cot by the window. It was an old cot, donated to him by Mrs Hudson (who'd apparently got it from a friend—the details were fuzzy, he hadn't really listened when she'd told him). Inside the cot, swathed in blankets to keep the cold away was his tiny three month old daughter. Slowly, her eyes opened. On seeing her father, her mouth broke out into a grin and she reached out as far as she could, quietly shrieking her need for him to hold her. Sherlock was only too happy to oblige. Carefully he picked her up and supported her in his arms. He couldn't help but smile as she grinned at him.

"I assume you chose not to name her after Mummy," Mycroft said, leaning against the doorway slightly.

"You assume correct. Her name's Imogen, if you really must know," Sherlock said and he finally turned to face his brother. Imogen—or Immy for short—saw her uncle, whose frown deepened on seeing the child's face.

"Yes. That's your uncle. Mycroft Holmes," he whispered softly. Immy's grin widened and just as she had done to Sherlock, she reached out to Mycroft. Sherlock stepped forward, but Mycroft's frown deepened in disapproval. Immy's face crumpled and she whined, reaching out further.

Originally, he took her from Sherlock to prevent her from crying. Sherlock merely stepped back and watched. It only took a few minutes. His brother's expression barely changed but the light in his eyes gave everything away. Eventually, he looked to Sherlock. The frown was back in place.

"I suppose she'll be okay," he said coolly before he handed Immy back to her father and swept from the flat. Sherlock looked to his daughter, deftly playing with her tiny fingers and stroking at her chubby cheeks.

"See that Immy? You just melted the iceman."

* * *

On the other side of London, at the check-in desk at Heathrow Airport, things were a bit more hectic. With a bulging suitcase at her feet, Molly sighed heavily and scooped her hair into a tight ponytail, smiling for the benefit of her daughter, who was currently lying against her chest, comfortable in the cocoon of the baby carrier as she gurgled a little, the sound being something both that warmed and hurt Molly's heart in equal measure. There should've been a second baby there, gurgling along with her sister but it was not to be. And all because of her.

They shouldn't have married. They shouldn't have even considered the idea of children. Yet, in their love-addled minds, they had. It wasn't that she regretted having kids; what she truly regretted was that the baby beside her would never know the mad, eccentric and utterly marvellous man who was her father. Of course, if she were to be honest with herself, it was really the best thing to do. After all, surely it was better for her daughter not to know her father than to suffer through the effects of witnessing an unhappy marriage. Wasn't it?

She was at the check-in desk before she knew it. Apparently having seen the turmoil in her eyes, the check-in attendant said nothing but just waved her through with a small, sympathetic smile before moving on to the next person in the queue.

Molly walked through the airport, more than a little bit stunned.

This had all happened. It had really happened. She had divorced Sherlock Holmes, and she was now heading towards the flight that would take her from her dear United Kingdom and to Phoenix, Arizona.

_It's the right thing to do_, she reassured herself.

She repeated that to herself a number of times, the words a slight breath on her tongue. But when she sat in that seat on the plane, there was no amount of softly spoken words that could stop the tears from flowing.


	2. Chapter 2

**_Eleven Years Later._**

Sherlock was on his second concerto of the day when footsteps bounded up the steps to 221b and the door burst open and the small whirlwind that was his daughter ran inside. Sherlock chuckled and put away his violin.

"Hello. Good day at school?"

Immy shrugged.

"It was okay. But look what I got from Uncle Mycroft!" she added, before she unceremoniously stuck a plane ticket into his hands. Sherlock scanned it, and frowned. The plane ticket was to Maine, and apparently free of charge, according to the note pinned to it.

On seeing her father's expression, Immy's smile dropped a little. "He promised I could go…"

"Well, he would, wouldn't he?" Sherlock muttered. Ever since first meeting her at three months old, Mycroft had been wrapped around Immy's little finger, and ready to do anything for her at the drop of a hat.

It had been a week since Immy had learnt of the summer camp known as Camp Walden, and it had been for that entire week that she had badgered her father about going. Sherlock had said no every time. Of course, some parents might like the idea of having a whole summer away from their children, but Sherlock Holmes was not like some parents. Even though he would never admit it outright, the idea of having his daughter halfway across the world for a little over two months wasn't one that appealed to him.

"Dad, please can I go? Uncle Mycroft says I should—he said it would be good for my education, and that—"

Sherlock gave her a look. Immy quietened, and shrugged.

"Okay, he didn't say that exactly. But it really would! You know, help me. Please, pretty please?" she asked finally, eyes wide and her bottom lip stuck out in a large pout. For a moment, he looked at her, in a somewhat large amount of disbelief. She was so like her mother in both personality and appearance, it was uncanny. Even her eyes were the same—wide, deep brown, impossible to say no to. Really, the only thing she had inherited from him was the deep ebony black of his hair. Everything else was purely from her mother—right down to the wide eyes and the pout.

Finally, he let out a short, amused laugh and kissed his daughter on the forehead as he stroked her long curls.

"Fine. You can go."

At this, Immy let out a cheer of delight and after grabbing the ticket from her father's hand, she jogged upstairs towards her bedroom to pack. Sherlock sighed. It seemed then, that it wasn't just Mycroft she had wrapped around her little finger.

* * *

Camp Walden was the sort of place read about in books and seen on quaint television programmes. Groups were made up of who was placed in which cabin, and almost everything was built from logs or rustic wood. Lines of buses pulled into the grounds, filled with cheering and waving girls, whilst various camp leaders and staff waved back just as eagerly.

It wasn't something that greatly impressed Mycroft, and he did wonder why Imogen had insisted on coming, but when he saw her face light up as the car pulled up in the grounds of the camp, he decided that the appeal of Camp Walden was obviously something lost on adults like him. It would be best not to question it.

The driver came to a smooth stop, and both Imogen and Mycroft both stepped out at the same time. The children from the buses were now unloading, and a grey-haired woman was stood on a small plinth, megaphone in hand.

"Welcome to Camp Walden. I'm Marva Kulp, your camp director. Now, girls, remember to find your duffels as quickly as possible, we have a big first day ahead of us…"

Imogen clapped her hands happily, looking to her uncle. "Isn't this great?"

"I must confess, it isn't to my taste," Mycroft said, sniffing slightly. "But then, I'm not their target audience, so the point is moot."

There was a pause as Imogen considered his words, and she let out a giggle. "Whatever you say Uncle Mycroft!"

"Yes. Well, you're just fortunate enough that I had a meeting with the President this week, that's all. Now, let's review everything."

"Now?" Imogen said, sighing a little. Mycroft raised an eyebrow as he removed a notebook from the inside pocket of his coat. She took that for an insistent yes.

"Vitamins?"

"Check."

"Minerals?"

"Check."

"List of daily fruits and vegetables?"

"Check, check."

Another eyebrow was raised, but he continued all the same.

"Sunblock, insect repellent, stationary, stamps…"

"Look, Uncle Mycroft, I'm sure it's all there. I packed it all!"

"Hm. Very well. I shall be off. The President dislikes being kept waiting."

Imogen said nothing to this, but that was nothing new. Her disinterest in politics was something Mycroft had long ago decided to ignore. She only spoke when he turned to leave.

"Uncle Mycroft…" she said slyly. "Could you do the handshake? You know, before you leave?"

"No. It would be inappropriate."

Imogen pouted a little. "Please?"

For a long while, Mycroft stared at his niece, unwilling to give in. She simply waited.

It took him less than a minute. With a slight sigh and a roll of the eyes, he stuck out his hand. Grinning widely, Imogen took it. Within a few seconds, they were back in the familiar routine, arms and hands moving dextrously before they both pivoted and bumped hips. Exchanging places, they once more shook hands.

"Have fun, won't you?" Mycroft said.

"I'll try," Imogen said, eyes twinkling.

* * *

On the other side of the camp, a girl with dark curls and searing brown eyes was attempting a mission of deathly consequences. In short, she was trying to retrieve her duffel bag from the pile that it had been buried under. Behind her, the daughter of Marva Klum (imaginatively named Marva Jr) was giving out cabin assignments.

Emma continued to struggle against the weight of the bags.

"Hey," a voice said behind her. "You okay?"

"I'm—fine!" she said, panting a little.

"You don't look it."

Hearing this, she turned on the person beside her. It was a boy, about average height for his age. His hair was a vivid shade of bright red and light freckles were dotted on his face. If she were interested in that sort of thing, she might've called him pretty.

"What are you doing at a girls' camp?" she asked bluntly.

The boy shrugged. "My parents. They thought it was a mixed camp. Need any help?" he added, looking to the pile of bags. Reluctantly, she nodded. The boy grinned and leaned forward, taking a tight hold of her bag. With an annoying amount of ease, he pulled it free and handed it to her.

"Thank you. Though I still could've done it on my own."

"Sure. You British or something?" the boy asked suddenly.

"My mum's British, if that's what you mean."

"Oh. 'Cause your duffel says Arizona on it."

"It would do. That's where I live."

"Cool. Name's Nero, by the way," he said, sticking out his hand. Emma took it with a degree of caution, but shook it all the same.

"Emma Hooper!" Marva Jr. called suddenly. Emma turned her head, raising a hand.

"Arapaho."

Nero grinned brightly. "That's where I am. At least you'll know one person there!"

The smile Emma gave him was tight at the corners. "Great."


	3. Chapter 3

Not a full week had passed before Imogen had decided that life at summer camp was a lot easier than people had made it out to be. The girls inside the cabin she had been assigned were friendly enough, and the activities weren't too strenuous, but not too boring either. The only annoying thing was the insistent running up of the flag that was conducted every morning, accompanied by a rendition of the American National Anthem. Overall though, it was quite fun.

The only strange thing came near the end of the first week, when she and her friends went to the mess hall to get lunch. The buffet table practically groaned with food. As such, the queue was quite long, but she duly moved along with it, chatting happily with her friends as they waited. Eventually though, they got to the head of the line.

"I'll save you a seat Immy," her friend—Anna—said happily as she moved away and sat down. Imogen went to pick up a bread roll, but was interrupted by the sudden arrival of Marva.

"Excuse me girls, I've just got to have a scoop of these gorgeous strawberries." She turned to the girl on her left. "Would you care for some?"

"Sorry, I can't," the girl replied. "I'm allergic."

"That's too bad." Now she turned to Imogen. "How about you dear? Strawberries?"

"No, I can't. Sorry, but I, I'm allergic, you see."

Marva's eyes narrowed. "Yes, allergic. You just told me that."

"I—I don't think I did."

"How did you get over there?"

"What?"

Marva immediately waved a hand. "Oh, well. First week of camp—you'll have to excuse the old girl. At least I'm not putting salt in the sugar shakers! Oh, well, I mean, sugar in the salt shakers, you know…"

Seeing that Marva was preoccupied, she wisely decided to move away.

* * *

Once lunch was finished, Imogen and her friends decided to head towards the tennis courts. On their way however, they passed a small green where a fencing session was taking place, overseen by Marva Jr. One of the players was dressed all in white, and the other was dressed in a mixture of green and white. The one in white was the one who was losing. In fact, it only took a quick series of parries and thrusts before the one in white was on the ground. Imogen moved closer, intrigued by the scene.

The defeated opponent sighed and removed their helmet, revealing themselves to a boy with bright ginger hair.

"Touché!" he said, laughing a little. Imogen recognised him as Nero, the only boy at the camp.

"Alright excellent kids!" Marva Jr said as she stepped forward and took the hand of the winner. "The winner and still undefeated champ from Phoenix, Arizona, Miss Emma Hooper! Any other challengers?"

There was silence in the group. Marva Jr laughed. "C'mon, ladies. Let's not be damsels in distress here."

Hannah—definitely the loudest of Imogen's group of friends—nudged at her.

"C'mon, I bet you can beat her."

"I don't want to though," Imogen said quietly. "I'm fine watching."

Hannah sighed, and turned to Marva Jr.

"She'll do it!" she cried, pushing Imogen forward.

"Okay, great. What's your name, hon?"

"Uh, Imogen. Imogen Holmes."

"Cool. Now, go get ready. Game won't start until you're ready!"

Imogen had half a mind to get ready as slowly as she could, but Hannah—as well as all of her other friends—apparently had better ideas and before she could even try to reason with them, she found herself prepped for the game, with her mask on and a foil in her hand.

"Fencers ready?" Marva Jr asked. Both of the girls nodded, settling into a beginning stance. Marva Jr grinned.

"En garde. _Fence_!"

Immediately, Imogen surged forward in a series of attacks, but they were swiftly blocked by a variety of defence moves from Emma.

Imogen didn't like losing. She was stubborn that way. Her father had said once that that was something she'd inherited from her mother. (Well, it hadn't been said, more implied.)

Apparently, Emma possessed that same stubborn streak. The game quickly escalated, and the two girls found themselves off the green. The rest of the onlookers ran after them, eager to see who would win. Marva Jr was amongst them, having momentarily forgotten her duties as co-camp leader.

Cheers and chants echoed as the onlookers egged the two girls on.

Those same cheers and chants stopped dead when Imogen lunged forward with her foil, poking right in the middle of Emma's chest.

"Touché!" she called, but that was drowned out by Emma's surprised yell and the splash of water as she fell back into the lake.

Without hesitation, Imogen dived in after her and pulled her out. (She may have been stubborn, but she wasn't going to let a fellow competitor drown!) Once out of the lake, the two of them slowly got to their feet.

"Thanks," she said, spluttering slightly as she coughed.

Marva Jr stepped forward. "Okay, that was quite a show! But I think we've got ourselves a new camp champ from London, England, Miss Imogen Holmes!"

Imogen blushed. Yes, she'd won, but she'd also got her opponent sopping wet. It wasn't something to be proud of, not exactly.

"All right girls, shake hands now."

With a sigh, Imogen removed the mask from her face and turned around. Any remark she had planned dissolved immediately and her breath caught in an audible gasp. Silence came from the small crowd around them.

She was looking at her reflection. Or, at least she would be, if she were looking into a mirror. But no, she was instead looking at her opponent, Miss Emma Hooper. And they were identical. Eyes, hair, nose… everything was the same.

Emma scoffed. Whether it was out of pure derision or out of an attempt to break the tension, Imogen didn't really know. "Honestly. What's wrong with you lot?"

"Can't you see it?" Imogen asked, frowning. "The resemblance?"

Emma's eyes scanned her for a moment or two before she flicked her head back, her face now set into a sneer. "No. You're just being stupid."

With that, she swept away. Imogen stayed where she was, trying to figure out how one girl could be so incredibly rude. Scowling, she whipped around.

"At least I'm not as stupid as you!"

It was those words that brought about what would be known throughout the camp as The Great Prank War.

* * *

Week by week, the pranks got larger and messier. The first one was harmless enough (according to the two Marvas at least); just a simple 'steal her clothes when she's swimming' technique. From then on, the pranks happened on an almost regular basis. Fake spiders in the bed? A quick parry of water balloons was Emma's reply. That parry would be swiftly blocked by a quick but classic defence of plastic snakes. It was nearing the end of the second week however that the ante was upped by a few severe notches. As discovered by Emma and Nero after they came back from a long session of basketball, they saw that every single one of Emma's possessions had been removed from Cabin Arapaho and put on the roof of the mess hall.

Yet when Emma went straight to Marva to report it, it was received with a light laugh, a dismissive wave and the claim that it was just "harmless fun between girls".

"Harmless fun?!" Emma spat, sitting on the floor of Cabin Arapaho and seething. Nero sat opposite her on his own bed, waiting for a moment to speak. He was waiting for an awful long time.

"Oh yes, your belongings are all on the roof and we can't get them down until Wednesday at the least, but it's just harmless fun—just something girls do at your age! Oh ha bloody ha!"

Tentatively, Nero held up a hand.

"What?!" she snapped, aiming her glare at him.

"I was just thinking—no, it's a stupid idea—"

Emma got to her feet, slowly approaching him. "No, you had an idea. What was it?"

"It's nothing—"

"It was obviously something, or you wouldn't have mentioned it, now would you?"

Nero nodded slowly. Emma might have been pretty, but she could be very scary when she wanted to be.

"I was just thinking… that maybe we could prank her back? With you know, like, the ultimate prank?"

Emma frowned. "The 'ultimate' prank? What does that mean?"

"It'd be messy…"

"Don't care. _Tell me_."

* * *

The next morning, Camp Walden woke not to the sounds of "The Star-Spangled Banner" on the bugle, but to the sounds of shocked screaming. Sounds which came from Cabin Navajo. And outside that same cabin stood a giggling Nero and Emma as they watched their various masterpieces come into play.

A water-soaked Imogen growled in frustration as the chaos around her took place. "Emma Hooper is the lowest, most awful creature that ever walked the planet!"

Emma flicked a grin at Nero. Pranks were fun.

"Morning girls!" Marva called cheerfully as she and Marva Jr strolled past them.

"Morning Marva," Emma and Nero said in unison.

Then it struck them. _Marvas_.

It got worse.

"Surprise inspection! Navajos!" Marva called, her voice echoing through the megaphone.

"The milk!" Nero squeaked, but Emma clapped a hand over his mouth, glaring at him.

"Don't. Say. Anything. I'll sort it." Quickly, she left a now whimpering Nero and ran to the door of the cabin, throwing herself across it. The two Marvas stopped in their tracks.

"Emma dear, what are you doing?" the elder Marva asked.

"One of the girls got sick last night and it's… it isn't pretty. Go and inspect our cabin first. We can manage here!"

Marva shook her head. "If someone's sick, I have to go in."

Emma closed her eyes for a moment and tried to gather her thoughts. Lying had never been her strong suit, however much she wanted it to be. Growing impatient, Marva pushed at the door, but Emma held firm.

"I promise you Marva, it's not good. Really not good."

"Move aside, dear. I won't tell you again."

"Actually, we're all fine in here," Imogen said, leaning through the open window. "No-one's sick or anything."

Emma sighed. Of course her downfall would come at the hands of one Imogen Holmes. She tried once again.

"My mum's a doctor!" Emma cried desperately. "I know about this stuff—she'd agree with me. You seriously can't go in. Just leave for the moment, and we'll clean everything up. I promise."

Marva sighed. "Inspections take time, dear."

"Great! Take all the time you need—just take the time somewhere else!"

There was yet another heavy sigh from Marva and she grasped Emma's shoulders and pushed her to the side, wrenching open the door.

There was far more chocolate milk than Emma had imagined. Had the bucket grown in size? It didn't matter; she was in enough trouble anyway. The liquid poured over the heads of both Marvas, and that only served to set off a chain reaction as the two Marvas slipped and slid straight towards the end of the cabin, where they both smacked hard into the large chest of drawers.

"What the hell did you do?!" Imogen cried, staring at Emma in a mixture of shock and awe.

"I didn't do anything! They were the ones that opened the door!"

"ENOUGH! I have had enough!" Marva yelled, stumbling to her feet. Through the mess of chocolate milk, she glared at the two girls, pointing an accusing finger at the two of them. "You, and you… _pack your bags_!"


	4. Chapter 4

_**This is a longer chapter, but it does contain lots of plot, so I guess that's a justification. A huge thank you to everyone who has reviewed, favourited and followed this fic so far!**_

* * *

They ended up in the isolation cabin, a place hidden away in the forest surrounding the camp. Aside from that, it wasn't too bad. They could still walk to the main camp without losing breath, and anyway, it was peaceful.

That was what Imogen thought anyway. Emma seemed to be a lot more annoyed about the ordeal, and for the first couple of days, she refused to speak to or even acknowledge her fellow cabin member. And when she did deign to acknowledge Imogen, she only did so to blame her for what had happened. At first, Imogen did consider arguing with her and pointing out that if she hadn't set up such a horrible prank, they would still be in the main camp, but it was obvious to see that Emma Hooper wasn't really one for listening.

It was the weather that got them actually talking to one another. Imogen had been busy hanging up some pictures on her side of the cabin, humming quietly to herself.

"Shut up," Emma snapped, at which Imogen frowned and looked over at her bunkmate, who was lying back on her bed, reading intently.

"No," she said petulantly, and she began to whistle cheerfully as she resumed putting up her pictures. From behind her, she heard Emma sigh heavily but say nothing. She grinned. Imogen, 1. Emma, 0.

Her triumph was rudely swept away when a gust of wind blew through the open window, scattering her pictures everywhere. Quickly Imogen ran to the window, and attempted to pull it shut, but it wouldn't budge.

"It's probably stuck," Emma said, still reading.

"Then help me!"

There was another heavy sigh as Emma slowly stood up and moved over to the window to help. It was only slightly annoying for Imogen to note that the extra strength provided helped enormously, and soon enough, the window was shut. Now all she had to deal with was the problem of sorting through the pile of scattered photos that lay on the floor. Joy.

She huffed slightly and slid off the bed to begin picking them up. She only looked up when she saw another pair of hands in her peripheral vision. Emma glanced at her, as if surprised by her surprise.

"What?"

Imogen considered a smart remark, but there were a lot of photographs—she could use the help. So she merely gave a smile and the two continued with the task in silence.

"Any of the pictures ruined?" Emma asked eventually. Imogen shrugged.

"Only this one," she said, holding up a now ripped picture of Marie Curie and fighting back a blush. She had never been one to go for what was popular, preferring to instead pour over her father's endless scientific journals. She stayed silent, waiting for the usual sneering comment.

Strangely enough, it didn't come. Emma merely shrugged, apparently impressed by what she saw.

"And just when I was beginning to think you were stupid."

Imogen frowned. "Beginning to?"

"Could an idiot put my belongings on top of the mess hall without detection?"

She couldn't help but giggle a little at this. It had been perfectly simple really, setting up the prank; all she'd really had to do was wait for a quiet moment within the camp and everything else had been smooth sailing.

"Yeah, well," she said eventually. "You must be pretty clever too, seeing as you managed to soak the two Marvas in chocolate milk."

Emma raised an eyebrow. "To be fair, that was designed for you." At this, Imogen smiled. Before she could say anything else however, the bell for lunch rang somewhere in the distance. Emma's stomach instantly rumbled.

"Guess that's a sign," she said quickly, standing up. When she got to the door, she turned and glanced towards Imogen. "Coming?"

Imogen quickly scrambled to her feet. She wasn't sure what she had done to gain this newfound peace from her bunkmate, but she definitely wasn't going to question it.

* * *

They arrived at the mess hall to find not the usual mess of chattering and laughter but the sounds of hushed, gossiping whispers.

"What do you suppose going's on?" Emma said, but Imogen shrugged.

"It's Marva," Nero said from behind them. They both turned to find him leaning against the doorway of the mess hall.

"Which one?" Imogen asked quickly.

"The old one. There's been a break-in at her office."

Imogen sighed with sympathy and shook her head. "That's terrible."

"No it's not," Emma said, eyes shining. "It's brilliant—first exciting thing that's happened here in _weeks_!"

Nero frowned, but said nothing. He was used to Emma's strange behaviour by now. Imogen however, after having endured a week of silence from her bunkmate, had yet to become as tolerant as the ginger-haired boy.

"We should investigate," Emma said eagerly. "You know, find out who did it."

"I know what investigate means. I just don't think we should do it."

"Correction: you're scared to do it."

Imogen sighed, but she was unable to think of a suitable retort. The fact that Emma was 100% right grated. She turned to Nero, who stepped away.

"No. No way. You're not getting me involved."

He kept saying that right up until the point that he, flanked by Emma and Imogen, found himself standing directly opposite a door with a sign which read "_Marva Kulp: Camp Director._"

Emma looked to him. "Keep watch," she ordered, before both she and Imogen slipped inside.

* * *

The interior of the office was pretty standard for a camp director, but Imogen still scanned it, absorbing everything she could see and filing it away in her mind. Emma, however, preferred to take a more hands-on approach. Without hesitation, she shut the door behind them and practically threw herself to the floor, crawling on her hands and knees as she peered into dusty, dark corners for anything she could find.

When five minutes had passed, she looked up to see that Imogen still hadn't moved.

"Leaving me to do all the footwork then," she muttered, but Imogen shook her head.

"No. Looking. It's like my dad says—you always have to find out what you're searching for before you go looking."

Emma snorted derisively. "Rubbish. You're just being lazy."

Imogen shrugged. "Maybe," she said as she stepped towards the open window. Bending down, she touched at the sill and broke into a grin as she picked up three long blonde hairs. She focused her gaze on Emma.

"See?" she said, unable to hide the smugness in her voice. Emma got to her feet, huffing slightly.

"Fine. We'll do it your way."

Ten minutes ticked by as the two girls looked and searched. By the end of it, the total sum of their evidence was the three blonde hairs, a burnt ID badge and a muddy footprint by the side of the window.

"So, let's put all this together," Imogen said, sitting down in Marva's chair and spreading the evidence out on the desk. "Neither of the Marvas is blonde, so we can count them out."

Standing over her, Emma nodded.

"And this ID badge has the initials R.O. on it, and it looks recently burned, so that rules out any campers. Are there any blonde employees with the initials R.O?"

Imogen shrugged and stood up. "Don't know. Might as well have a look."

"Isn't that kind of a lot illegal?" Emma asked, raising an eyebrow.

"My father always says it isn't illegal if it helps the case."

"Your dad says a lot of things," Emma muttered, but Imogen simply gave a shrug as she moved over to the set of filing cabinets that stood by the left wall and scanned the labels on the drawers.

"He solves crimes—he's supposed to talk a lot. Ah!," she cried, grabbing at one of the lower drawers. "Letter R."

Emma jumped up. "Find anything?"

"I've got to get the thing open first," was the reply.

A firm clearing of the throat stopped them from continuing any further. Slowly, Imogen and Emma both turned to find the two Marvas glaring at them, arms crossed. Nero peeked out from behind them, giving a small wave.

"Hi guys," he said sheepishly. Emma sighed heavily, and quickly made a mental note never to put him on lookout ever again.

* * *

The elder Marva sat at her desk, hands clasped together whilst Marva Jr meanwhile stood behind the two girls, arms crossed over her chest. The both of them wore disapproving frowns.

"You girls care to explain breaking into my office?"

"We didn't break in," Emma said defensively. "We sneaked in. We had to conduct a search."

"A search?"

Imogen nodded. "Yep. We wanted to help you catch the person who stole your jewellery."

"How did you know it was Ma's jewellery that got stolen?" Marva Jr asked, incredulous.

"It's obvious. There's nothing else of value to steal in here, is there?"

The elder Marva shrugged, but instantly shook her head. "That doesn't matter. You broke into my office!"

For a few moments, there was silence in the cabin—only to be broken by a heavy sigh from Emma.

"Look, do you want to know who stole your jewellery or not?"

Both of the Marvas blinked for a moment. It was Marva Jr who shrugged.

"We might as well Ma. I mean, you know—considering this one's," she pointed quickly to Imogen, "parentage…"

The elder Marva sighed. "Fine. Girls, who do you think did it?"

Emma gave a quick, encouraging nudge to Imogen. "Go on—tell her.

"Why don't you? This was your idea."

"You were the one who broke into the filing cabinet," Emma pointed out. "You do it!"

Imogen stared at Emma for a long time, saying nothing. Annoyingly, she was right. She had broken into the filing cabinet, so it was only fair she tell them what they had found.

Before she could speak however, Nero cleared his throat and stepped forward. Both Imogen and Emma eyed him suspiciously. He however, continued to move forward.

"I… err… found something too," he muttered.

"What did you find?" Marva Jr asked. Nero only stepped towards the window and pointed outside. Both the two Marvas and Emma and Imogen moved to the window and looked outside, where they found, embedded in the rain-soaked mud, a series of footprints.

"Well," Emma said brightly. "I guess we follow those!" Grabbing Imogen's hand, she ran outside.

* * *

The footprints only lasted until the outskirts of the forest, but Emma and Imogen persevered in their search.

It took them a little under fifteen minutes. Imogen was the one who found what they were looking for: a medium-sized jewellery box that despite great efforts from someone had remained unopened. Tucking it under her arm, both she and Emma ran quickly back towards the elder Marva's office and burst inside, dumping the box on the desk with a flourish and a grin. The elder Marva did not return their grins. Instead, a deep frown was etched onto her face as she read through a folder. It was a few moments before she registered that Emma and Imogen were stood in front of her.

"Oh! Thank you girls. That's very nice of you. Don't worry however; we already know who the culprit is."

"Rosie Johnson."

The elder Marva's eyebrows quirked up in surprise. "What? How did you know?"

"Saw it on the folder," Emma explained with a shrug. With that, she was gone from the cabin. Imogen made to follow, but was stopped when Marva Jr called her name.

"You know you're still confined to the isolation cabin, right? This doesn't get you out of anything."

"We know," Imogen said cheerfully before she dived out of the cabin, jogging after her bunkmate.

Marva Jr turned to her mother, and at the same time, they let out a heavy sigh. From enemies to friends so quickly. It was enough to confuse anyone.

* * *

By the time the two girls had got back to their cabin, the rain had resumed and they were both drenched. Shivering, Imogen wrapped her scarf tighter around her arms and curled up on her bed. She couldn't help but feel a little envious of Emma, who apparently was her own personal radiator and as such, only needed another jumper before she felt completely warm.

"You can come over here if you want," Emma offered after a little while. When Imogen only frowned as a way of reply, she leant forward and gestured to the radiator behind her. It only took a few seconds before Imogen was off her bed and scuttling towards Emma's bed, climbing on and snuggling against the warmth of the radiator.

This newfound companionable silence was broken however when a loud rumbling sounded. Immediately, Imogen clamped down on her stomach, a blush growing over her cheeks.

Emma only laughed. "I forgot we only went down to the camp for lunch! Here," she said as she clambered down towards the end of her bed and leaned over the edge. There was the sound of a bag being unzipped and some rummaging before she reappeared; only now she held a packet of sweets—Reese's to be precise. Moving back to the radiator, she offered one to Imogen. "Want one?"

"Thanks," Imogen said with a smile. "I love these. But I never get to eat them—I only get them when my uncle brings them back from one of his trips."

"Wow. You've got a generous uncle."

"Don't you have one?"

Emma shook her head. "Nope. My mum was an only child."

"Oh. To be honest, I think my dad would rather be one of those—an only child I mean. He and my uncle don't really get on."

"You talk about your dad a lot."

Imogen blushed a shade deeper. "Sorry. It's just… he's all I've got. I don't have a mum; she left when I was little."

"Ah, okay. I get it now. So, what's your dad like?" she asked quickly, seeing Imogen's moon deflate at the mention of mothers. She was never good at handling other people's emotions, so it was better if the conversation stayed on 'safe' ground. Yet Imogen still said nothing, clearly lost in thought. Emma gave her another nudge.

"C'mon. You can tell me. Do you find it easy to talk to him, or is he one of those 'closed-off' kind of dads? You know... the ones who like their work more than their kid?"

"It's hard to say really," Imogen answered, shrugging. "This might sound weird, but he's kind of a mixture. Like, he's a great dad—I can talk to him about anything—but when he's on a case, he gets more… logical? Yeah, logical. He'd call it his 'mind palace' though."

"Mind palace?" Emma gave a snort. "That's rubbish."

"You wouldn't say so if you saw him!" Imogen said, giggling slightly. "What's your dad like?"

At this, Emma glanced down, now much more interested in the pattern of her duvet. "I don't have a dad," she said eventually. "I mean, I know I had one once, but he left my mum when I was little."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"It's okay—Mum always said it was a mutual thing. What?" she said, noticing Imogen's growing frown.

"It's nothing—I'm just being silly. But just to check: when's your birthday?"

"August 17th."

Imogen paled slightly. "That's my birthday too! Oh my god…"

She didn't need to explain. Emma had already caught up, and she jerked upwards. "How old were you when your parents split up?"

"Three months. And… I'm guessing you were the same."

Emma nodded. For a moment, the two stared at each other. _Was it possible? _Without warning, Emma sprung from the bed and knelt by her bag, scrabbling inside for something. She gave her answer before Imogen even had the chance to ask why.

"My mum always had this photo of my dad—she caught me looking at it almost every day, and eventually just gave in and gave it to me. I've had it ever since—so why can't I find it now?!"

Imogen ignored her ranting and climbed off the bed, running towards her own bed where she pulled her bag from underneath it and rummaged inside. After only a few moments she found it—the one picture of her mother that she'd kept ever since she was 6 years of age. It was worn, the edges curled from so many instances of her taking it from her bedside drawer and staring at it until every little detail had been implanted in her memory. The creased lines at her mother's eyes as she was doubled in laughter; the teasing brightness in her eyes; the perfectly manicured hand pressed against the chest of her father; and that ugly, ugly rip down the middle.

"Found it," Emma said finally, her voice more hesitant than before. With wobbling legs, she got to her feet. Both she and Emma faced one another.

"On the count of three."

"On the count of three," Imogen repeated, nodding in agreement.

"1…"

The photo clasped to Emma's chest was just as torn—if not more—than hers.

"2…"

The rips down the middle of their photographs were the same too. Imogen swallowed the urge to laugh nervously. This was it; this was really happening.

Emma took a breath. "_3._"

Almost immediately, they presented their photos to one another, joining them together into a cohesive whole. This time, Imogen couldn't hold back the soft, breathy laugh that bubbled up in her throat. Her father's face shone out at her, his hand clasped over the hand that pressed against his chest. His eyes sparked with a life that she hadn't ever seen before—the kind of life someone only gets when they were standing next to the one they loved.

"That's my dad," she said, voice choked.

Emma laughed, tears in her eyes. "And that's my mum."

They looked at one another. Imogen could hardly believe it. For eleven years, she had believed herself to be an only child. And now, here she was, in southern Maine, standing opposite not just a long-lost sister, but a long-lost _twin_.

And there was only one question running around in her brain.

"What's her name?"

Emma tilted her head slightly, confused. "You don't know Mum's name?"

"Dad… he never mentioned it. Only ever referred to her as 'your mother'."

"Oh. Well, her name's Molly. Molly Hooper."

"And you're my sister," Imogen said quietly, smiling widely. Emma grinned and pulled her into a tight hug. They didn't let go for a long, long time.

Eleven years. They had a lot to catch up on.


	5. Chapter 5

_Thank you to all who have left reviews, including** apedarling, Renaissancebooklover108, Bella Cuore, rivillie, ChloeisSherlocked, Empress of Verace, Mason, Minerva Nargles, blairbearwaldorf, Simplyspectating, SomeoneBorrowedMe, MegHolmes, SpencerReidFan89, CreamoCrop **and** nowsusieq.**_

_Also thank you everyone who has followed and/or favourited this fic as well._

_I hope I can keep entertaining you with this, and I hope you enjoy this chapter. It was one of my favourites to write._

* * *

For the rest of the day, Emma and Imogen chattered with one another, exchanging information and stories from their lives. After eleven years, they had much to talk about, and as such, it was dark before they got to the most important topic of all: their parents.

With their beds now pressed together by the window and their torn photographs pinned side by side on the wall, they chatted happily into the night, a packet of Reese's peanut butter cups lying between them.

"Mum works as a pathologist," Emma said. "I don't know much about it really, but from what Mum tells me, she examines dead bodies—you know, to find out how they died."

Imogen nodded, and let out a giggle. When Emma frowned, she waved a hand.

"I was just saying—it's funny really. You see, Dad works with Scotland Yard."

"Dad's a policeman? Wow!"

"He's better than that—he's a consulting detective. He helps the police when they get stuck on a case."

"I don't think I've ever heard of a consulting detective."

"He invented the job," Imogen said proudly, popping a peanut butter cup into her mouth and chewing. For the next few moments, there was silence as Imogen considered her next question. So far, she and her sister had talked about many things, but they hadn't yet broached the somewhat taboo subject of that most dreadful of things: stepparents.

"Em…"

"Yeah?"

"Has Mum, you know… did she ever move on?"

"You mean, do we have a wicked stepfather?"

"Basically."

Emma shook her head, grinning. "Nope. Mum always said she gave up on dating years ago. What about Dad?"

"Well, there was one woman that Dad met on a case… I never met her though, so they obviously didn't work out. Aside from that, nothing."

"Funny, isn't it? Neither Mum or Dad made mention of their divorce, but neither of them tried to move on either."

Imogen smiled. She didn't have to be told what implications that had. Although both she and her sister were yet to fully experience the complications of love and its consequences, it was still pretty obvious. After all, Imogen had met plenty of divorced people in her life, and none of them (however much they hated their exes) had ever had to separate their children and live on different sides of the Atlantic.

Quite without warning, Emma sat up, eyes sparking with the thoughts of a plan. "I have a brilliant, and I mean _brilliant_, idea!" She turned to look at Imogen, who merely raised her eyebrows in disbelief. "Oh, come on. Don't look at me like that."

"Okay, fine," Imogen said, propping herself up on her elbows. "What's the idea?"

"You want to know what Mum is like, don't you? And I am desperate to meet our Dad."

"You're seriously not suggesting… Oh, _Em_…"

"Look," Emma said quickly, jumping to her knees. "It's perfectly simple. When camp finishes, I can go back to London as you, and you can go back to Arizona as me! I see no problem with it."

"And I see a thousand—" Imogen shot back. "Namely that it's completely and utterly illegal!"

"That is irrelevant. We're twins—they'll never know! All we need to do is train one another, learn one another's mannerisms and bang, it's done! Easy as anything."

"Em, we're completely different from one another. And our Dad is one of the cleverest men in the world—you won't even be off the plane before he figures it out and sends you packing!"

"No-one can be _that_ clever," Emma said, scoffing slightly. Imogen sighed, aiming a look at her sister.

"Trust me, if anyone could, he could."

"Okay. Don't believe me? Watch this." Twisting her hair around her shoulder, Emma smiled and placed her hands in her lap, eyes wide. The resemblance she held to Imogen was even more eerie than it had been before. "Hello," she said, voice softer and less blunt than her own accent. "My name's Imogen. My dad's a consulting detective—he always says that you always have to find out what you're searching for before you go looking. Now you go!" she ordered, back to herself again.

Imogen shook her head. "No, I can't. I'm hopeless."

"Oh, come on! It's worth a try, at least."

For a long moment, Imogen watched as Emma stared at her, smiling encouragingly. _This is insane_, she thought as she sat up a little straighter and flicked her hair over her shoulder, squaring herself up a little.

"Honestly," she said in what was hopefully a good impression of her sister's voice. "What's wrong with you lot? I see no resemblance. You're all just being stupid!" With that, she finished her impression and relaxed, twisting her hair around her neck to her front. She sneaked a glance at Emma, who had remained utterly silent throughout. The look on her face was one of surprise.

"Wow," she said eventually. "That was like looking in a mirror! Come on Immy—we have to do this! Please?"

Emma was right of course. Imogen _was_ dying to meet her mother, the pathologist Molly Hooper. She had been ever since she'd discovered that photograph in her father's sock drawer. And now… somehow, in some way, she'd been provided with that chance. She was a fool if she didn't take it. Finally, she nodded.

"Sure. What harm could it do?"

"Yes!" Emma cried, scooping Imogen into a quick hug before sitting back on her bed. "But you know what's really great about this?"

"What?"

"When we switch, sooner or later, they'll have to switch us back. And to do that…"

"They'll have to meet! Oh, of course!" Imogen said, grinning widely. "And after all these years too!"

Emma lay back on her bed, snuggling down in the duvet, preening slightly at the brilliance of her plan. "Told you I was a genius."

* * *

For the next few weeks, Emma and Imogen were inseparable, exchanging photos and information to one another. Soon enough, they set up a rota. On one day, Emma would tell Imogen about her family and life in Arizona, and on another day, Imogen would tell Emma all about life in London.

The rest of the camp—both staff and children—were more than a little puzzled by the sudden closeness of the two, but no-one questioned it. After all, it made for a more peaceful camping experience, so no-one was going to complain.

It was a Tuesday, and they had sat down at the isolation table to eat breakfast in the mess hall. The breakfast however went largely untouched as Imogen presented her sister with a series of photographs.

"That's Mrs Hudson," she said, presenting a photo of one Christmas, where Sherlock was frowning grumpily as an old woman pressed a pair of Christmas antlers onto his head. Emma smiled—the woman in the photo seemed nice enough, with her genuine smile and greying bouffant hairstyle.

"She's the landlady," Imogen explained. "But she's always cleaning up after Dad. I help her out sometimes when her hip's acting up, and she always gives me a scone and a cup of tea afterwards." She presented another photograph, but this time, it wasn't a family photograph. It was in fact a professional portrait of a slender-but-bordering-on-chubby-man with coppery brown hair. He was dressed in an expensive-looking suit and in his hand, he clutched a black umbrella. He was every inch the cold and cool English Gentleman. All that was missing was the bowler hat and the pipe.

"That's Mycroft. He's the uncle I told you about. He comes off as cold and kind of mean to some people, but I always get him to do what I tell him. He's a softie really."

"Oh, okay," Emma said, drawing the photograph closer to her and peering at it. "He buys Reese's peanut butter cups for you, so he can't be _all_ bad."

Imogen giggled and presented another photo. This time, it was of a shorter man, with greying blonde hair. Although he was stood up straight and wasn't making any attempt to smile in the picture, there was a kind of brightness in his eyes that betrayed an element of cheekiness about him. She imagined he would be the sort of person to tell you off for doing something wrong, whilst encouraging you to do it at the same time.

"That's John—John Watson. He used to live with us after Mum and Dad got divorced, but he moved out when I was about... 2 I think? He and Dad still really get on though—they're best mates, actually. He also helps out on the cases Dad gets from the police."

"Right. So he's a consulting detective as well then?"

"No, not really. Not like Dad is. He is clever though, and he's solved a few cases on his own. Overall though, he's just really nice. I've known him since I was little."

"He seems like a good guy."

"Yeah. And you can get away with anything when he's around!" Imogen said, giggling again as she packed away the photographs and picked at her once-forgotten breakfast. "So, tell me about your family."

Emma smiled as she took a couple of photographs out of the back pocket of her jeans and put them on the table. "I've only got two main people in my life, really. There's Mum," she said, tapping at the photograph of their mother. "And there's Mary."

She pointed to the other photograph, which was of a birthday party. In the middle of the photograph was a small 5 year old Emma, and behind her was a blonde lady, short in stature (about as short as John), with slate blue eyes. She was hugging Emma from behind, and her grin was wide as she laughed. Imogen immediately knew she was someone to be liked. That impression was confirmed by Emma's answer.

"Her full name's Mary Morstan. Mum met her at university—she's now a nurse at the hospital where Mum works. She's American you see, but you wouldn't know it from her accent. She blames it on being shipped off to boarding school in England as a kid. But yeah, she's really nice and sweet. Pragmatic too, like Mum. I think she actually met our Dad, once."

"Really? Where?"

"At Mum's wedding. She acted as a witness."

"Oh okay. She's probably met Mycroft too—he was Dad's best man."

"I thought John would've been the best man."

"No, he and Dad hadn't met then," Imogen said simply. She glanced at the photo of Mary again. "She seems sweet though. I can't wait to meet her!"

Emma nodded, but gave a sudden cry as she realised something. She reached back into her pocket and brought out another photo. This time, it was of a dog—a Lhasa Apso, to be precise.

"That's Charlie," Emma said quickly, smiling as she glanced at the picture. "He's mine and Mum's dog. We've only had him for a few years, but he's really sweet. A bit stupid at times, and he can't play fetch to save his life, but he's adorable anyway. Mum usually takes him for his morning walk, and we go together when he needs his evening walk. His lunch walk is one I do on my own."

"On your own? Isn't that… dangerous?"

"No—I just go up and down the street a few times. Anyway, the neighbourhood we live in is pretty safe, so…" Emma tailed off with a shrug. Imogen smiled a little as she stared at the pictures once.

Molly, Mary and Charlie.

Yeah. That sounded okay.

* * *

With all of the training and teaching, camp went by far too quickly for both Emma and Imogen's liking. In what seemed like no time at all, they were stood at the entrance to the camp and bidding each other goodbye.

Somewhat reluctantly, Emma handed her passport and ticket over to Imogen, who was dressed in a t-shirt, jeans and a jacket with her hair tied back for the trip. It felt strange to Emma, to see her sister in her clothes. It really was like looking into a mirror. She supposed that was what it felt like for Imogen too.

Sighing a little, she squared her shoulders and handed her passport and ticket to Imogen. "Right. So, this is it. We can't mess this up."

"No, we can't. And remember: you're finding out why Mum and Dad broke up."

"And you're finding out how they met," Emma said, to which Imogen nodded.

They were interrupted by a light tapping on each other's shoulders. Together, they turned to find Nero stood before them.

"Just thought I'd say goodbye before the buses left," he muttered, avoiding their eyes. Emma stifled a giggle, glancing to her sister before she looked back at Nero.

"Thanks Nero, for everything."

"You've been great," Imogen added, smiling. Nero grinned, fighting back a blush.

"You're worth getting out of games for," he said quietly. Nearby, a small crowd of girls _aww_ed at this, and the blush he had been fighting flooded his cheeks. That blush only increased when, at the same time, Imogen and Emma bent down and kissed each of his cheeks.

"Th—thanks," he mumbled before he scuttled away and into one of the buses. Laughing slightly, Emma turned back to Imogen.

"Remember to stay in touch, won't you?" Imogen asked.

"Of course I will. Good luck by the way."

Imogen smiled and pulled Emma into a sudden, but quickly reciprocated, hug. "Good luck to you too," she mumbled. Emma's grip around her shoulders tightened. Imogen sighed happily and stepped back, pressing a passport and ticket into Emma's palm.

"That's all in order—I've checked and double checked it. Mycroft will no doubt send a car to pick you up, but if he's not too busy, he'll probably pick you up himself. And—"

"Hey, Immy," Emma said, cutting her off. She rested a hand against her shoulder. "I'll be fine. Go. You'll miss your bus otherwise."

"I know," Imogen said, smiling. "Give Dad a hug for me, will you?"

"Of course I will. Now, c'mon—the bus is waiting!"

Imogen laughed and pulled her sister into one last hug before she turned and ran off, practically diving into the about-to-depart bus. Emma stayed where she was, watching as the bus slowly pulled away. It struck her that in just a few hours, she would be in London and would be face-to-face with the man she had only ever seen in an old photograph. It was rather scary, if she thought about it. Even after all the teaching Imogen had given her, she still hadn't fully realised the scope of what she was doing. A small part of her wanted to run away and admit the whole plan to someone—anyone. Another, larger, part of her however hated that idea. Yes, it was ridiculous, and it was silly and highly implausible that it would work in the long run, but that didn't matter. If she only got a week with her father out of this—less than that even—at least it would be something. It would definitely be better than staring at a torn up photograph for all eternity.

* * *

It was a new experience, travelling as Imogen. Unlike her previous travelling experiences, she was waved through without a word, people helped her with her luggage and she was left in relative peace. Clearly, Imogen had greatly underestimated just how generous Uncle Mycroft was and just how far that generosity extended. It was actually rather nerve-wracking, getting used to all of this privilege.

When she did finally disembark from the flight, she stepped out of the arrivals gate to be met by a short-ish driver who held a large piece of white card on which the name "Imogen Holmes" was embossed. She greeted the driver with a smile, but he merely took her bags and escorted her out of the airport and towards a sleek black car. Emma tried not to gape as she slid inside and felt the softness of the leather. After all, she was Imogen Holmes—no doubt she would be used to this sort of thing. The driver still said nothing as he packed her bags into the boot of the car and got into the front. He didn't ask where he was supposed to go either. Emma once again assumed that this was Mycroft's doing. No doubt he—with his seemingly endless influence—had already given the driver instructions of where to go.

The drive was longer than she thought it would be, but she happily wiled away the time by gazing out of the tinted window at the scenery that flicked past her. She had seen London plenty of times in photographs and various films or television shows, so she wasn't exactly the wide-eyed Yank she feared she might have been (even though it was still a thrill to note each landmark as the car passed them).

It was with a bit of jolt however when the car turned down one street and they passed a building that Emma found she did recognise—and not from a television show or film. It took her only a few seconds to realise that she had passed the place where her parents had married.

There was no time to dwell it on though, because the car had already come to a smooth stop. The passenger door opened and for the first time since meeting her at the airport, the driver gave her a smile.

"221b Baker Street, miss."

"Thank you," was all she managed to say. Slowly, she stepped out of the car, hoping beyond hope that she didn't appear as nervous as she really was. The driver gave no indication of whether she did or not, but instead shut the door behind her and moved around to the boot to retrieve her bags. When he told her with a somewhat puzzled tone that she could go up, she realised that she had remained frozen to the spot, her gaze locked on the building in front of her.

It was much like to the buildings that surrounded it—the only thing that put it apart from those same buildings was the sandwich shop that made up the lower floor. Sat outside were a few dozen people, some clutching cameras and some wearing black coats, or blue scarfs or deerstalkers. (With some people, they wore all three.)

On seeing Emma approach the building, the people with the cameras jumped to their feet and started calling Imogen's name, pointing their cameras straight at her. The driver immediately stepped in front of her, covering her from the glare of the camera flashes.

"Don't worry miss," he said over his shoulder. "Just paparazzi. Go on, get inside. Quick as you can. Go on."

Emma didn't hesitate in scuttling inside. Thankfully, the door was unlocked. Shutting the door behind her, she leaned against the wall to catch her breath. Okay, so _that_ was a surprise.

Before she could think anymore though, the sound of a violin being played floated down the stairs. She smiled, recognising the tune as Bach; one of the more light and jovial tunes. One evening, near to the end of camp, Imogen had played her a compilation of their father's violin playing from her iPod, saying he'd given it to her as a way to get to sleep during her time at camp. From that moment, the playlist had been on an almost constant loop during the night as Emma and Imogen bandied about theory upon theory of why their parents had split.

Quickly, Emma walked up the steps, only stopping when a loud creak sounded from under her foot. The violin playing ceased. She froze, hearing murmurs of voices. A few moments passed before the music resumed, louder than before. Breathing a small sigh of relief, she jogged up the last few and opened the door to Baker Street. The sight she was greeted with was both heart-warming and overwhelming. Everyone was there: John, Mrs Hudson—even Mycroft. There was one woman there she didn't recognise, but as John had his arm wrapped around her waist, she guessed it was his girlfriend.

What she was most focused on however was the man in the middle of the room. Dressed in a black suit with a purple shirt hidden underneath, he dextrously played his violin, moving with the rhythm of the piece. His hair was longer than the photograph, having grown from a classic short cut to an abundance of curls which stopped just above the collar of his shirt. He was more toned than the photograph too, having grown into his lean stature over the years. But what pleased her most was the sheer relief when she realised that aside from the hair and the build, he had changed very little. He was exactly as she had imagined him to be.

As he was wrapped up in his playing, it took him a few moments to notice her. When he did though, he dropped his violin to his side and grinned at her.

"Mycroft insisted on sending the car," was all he said. Emma swallowed slightly, trying not to cry. He was _perfect_.

She couldn't hold on any longer. Running forward, she practically barrelled into him, hugging him tightly. From behind her, she heard Mrs Hudson and the woman she didn't recognise "_Aww_" a little at the sight, whilst John just gave a soft chuckle. Emma didn't care about any of them however, not at that moment. Instead, she focused on the man who, on being hugged, laughed and knelt down, hugging her back just as tightly as he gently stroked at her hair.

"I apologize for the paparazzi, Imogen. The consequences of working with famous clients," Mycroft said, a slight drawl in his voice. Emma turned to look at him.

"I made the mistake of accepting a case from your uncle, Immy," Sherlock said, sniffing slightly in contempt. "He promised my involvement would be anonymous, but things... got out of hand."

"We did attempt to get them to move before your arrival, but-"

"You just can't bribe the right people nowadays," John said, earning a icy glare from Mycroft.

"Are... are you sure I should be hearing this?" Emma asked quietly, only intending for her father to hear. The fact that Mycroft turned his head towards her and raised an eyebrow showed that she'd failed.

"I instigated the discussion, Imogen, therefore-"

"It can't be of national importance," Emma finished, smiling to cover up her mistake. "Sorry. Eight weeks at camp, you know."

"Yes, about that," Sherlock said, standing up. "I don't care how beneficial it is to your education; you are not going back next year."

"That's his way of saying he missed you," John chirped up, taking a sip of the wine in his hand and earning a laugh from his girlfriend. Emma smiled.

She had always wondered what it would be like to meet her father for the very first time.

The reality beat out any illusions.

* * *

_**EDIT: [28.11.2013]** A reviewer pointed out that I put that John moved in after Sherlock and Molly married, which was wrong. I meant to say that John moved in after they divorced. I think my brain must have short-circuited or something when I was writing that particular passage! It's fixed now, but thank you so much to the reviewer who pointed out and was so polite about it._


	6. Chapter 6

"We are now beginning our descent into Phoenix, Arizona, ladies and gentlemen. Please turn off all electronic devices, and thank you for flying with us today."

Imogen blinked herself awake and took in her surroundings. The plane she was on was far less superior to that which she was used to. She might have been annoyed by this, but as she stared out of the aeroplane window and saw the tiny shape that made up the state of Arizona, the flicker of excitement that had been lying dormant for much of her trip began to surface. She was actually going to meet her. Molly Hooper. _Her mother. _After so, so many years. The thought actually made her a little light-headed.

That same light-headedness didn't cease when the plane landed. The grin that had grown to cover almost all of her face remained as she walked down the aisle and down the steps and stepped onto the warm tarmac of the airport. A warm breeze whipped around her as she slowly moved forward with the crowd towards the arrivals gate, the flicker of excitement slowly growing into a full-grown flame.

She didn't even step one foot into the arrivals gate before a cry of "Em! Emma!" went up, and Imogen felt herself grin as she saw how her mother continued to push through the crowd of waiting people, throwing hurried apologies over her shoulder as she went. Compared to the photograph, she was markedly different; after living in Phoenix for eleven years, her skin was less pale, and she had grown a few inches, but aside from that, she still had the same long chestnut-coloured waves as well as the same wide and warm brown eyes. Most importantly of all, she still had the exact same smile.

After eleven years, nine months, eight weeks and four hours of waiting, Imogen couldn't do so any longer. She sprinted forward and fell into her mother's waiting arms, locking her arms tightly around the shoulders of her mother and burying her face into her neck.

"Hello to you too!" Molly said, laughing happily as she squeezed at Imogen's waist before getting to her feet.

"Come on," she said. "Mary and Charlie are dying to see you."

* * *

On the car ride home, Imogen stayed quiet as she listened to her mother chatter, animatedly telling about what happened over the last eight weeks. She was up for a promotion at work, and it seemed likely that she would get it. Mary had sadly split from her latest boyfriend but was taking the split remarkably well. Meanwhile, Charlie was still the same idiot as he'd ever been.

Imogen nodded and interjected at appropriate points, but for the most part, she just stayed silent. It was just so… _lovely_ to watch her mother; to learn her gestures, the inclinations in her voice, or the way she used her facial expressions to convey what she felt. She was so expressive, and so open. A major contrast to the way her father was when he was on a case.

"Sweetheart," her mother said suddenly, giving out a laugh. "You've barely said a word! Normally you would've told me to be quiet by now. Are you okay?"

Imogen broke into a wide grin. "Sorry. I guess I'm just tired. Also, I've missed you."

Her mother's features softened and she drew Imogen into a quick hug and kissed her on the top of her head. "I've missed you too."

The sound a loud, insistent car horn behind her made her jump, and she laughed as she pulled the car into the next lane, glancing to Imogen. "A whole summer you've been away, and still the traffic's awful."

At this, Imogen said nothing. She didn't need to, as they had begun to arrive at the apartment building that her mother and Emma called home. Molly pulled up and stopped the car, throwing a grin to Imogen as she stepped outside.

_You can do this_, Imogen thought to herself. _You can. No-one suspects anything, do they?_

"Knock, knock!"

Her head snapped up, only for her to see a pair of slate blue eyes staring straight at her. Mary grinned and knocked on the window again, making a beckoning motion with her hand. Imogen wasted no time in opening the door and stepping out onto the warm street. She was immediately scooped into a hug; one that was only interrupted by the sound of a short, happy bark. Mary laughed.

"We'll get to you in a minute!" she said, glancing down at the furball that was Charlie the dog. She smiled at Imogen again and threw an arm around her shoulder as she, Imogen and Charlie made their way into the apartment building. Molly was nowhere to be seen.

"Your mum's upstairs," Mary said, seeing Imogen glance around before she gave her shoulder an encouraging squeeze. "So come on. Tell me everything! How was camp? Did you meet anyone nice?"

"Oh, loads of people! There was a guy—"

Mary's eyebrows shot upwards. "A guy? Should I be telling your mum, or is this something we'll be keeping to ourselves?"

"He's just a friend. I met a couple of other people too—including a girl from England."

"Ah, bonny Britain. Was she posh like the dear queen, or common as muck?" Mary asked, her accent swinging from the Queen's English to Cockney without missing a beat. Imogen laughed, but didn't give a reply as she continued to listen Mary adopt an astonishing variety of accents. She could see why Emma liked her so much. She was lovely; like a cool, non-blood related aunt who could make you laugh just by making a certain facial expression at you. It was inevitable really that she was helpless with laughter by the time they got to the apartment.

That laughter quickly ceased when she walked inside to find an intruder in the living room, casually watching some sports channel or other. With their body sprawled out on the large, squashy sofa, they held the television remote in their right hand whilst their left arm was thrown over their head to act as a makeshift pillow. Male, the intruder was lean in build and dressed in the standard 'cool' t-shirt and jeans. On seeing him, Imogen stopped, frozen. Mary on the other hand, smiled—though a little too tightly to be genuine—and approached the man to tap him on the shoulder. He grinned and swung himself off the sofa and onto his feet, enveloping Mary into what looked like a bone-crunching hug.

"Mary!" he said brightly. "How are you?"

"I'm fine," was her somewhat curt reply. Then, a little quieter: "What are you doing here?"

His reply didn't come, as Molly had entered the living room, a glass of orange juice in her hand. Like Imogen, she stopped on seeing the man but unlike Imogen, she smiled.

"Tom! This is a—surprise. I thought you were at _work_!" The last word came out of her mouth in a yelp as the man (or _Tom_ as she insisted on calling him) rushed forward to scoop her into his arms and lifted her off the ground with the force of his hug.

"What, and miss the homecoming?" he asked brightly as he put her back down on the ground. He leant closely towards Molly, but thankfully, her mother had more sense than him and she deftly backed away and sipped at her juice.

"That's really thoughtful of you Tom, thank you."

Annoyingly, she sounded like she meant it. Imogen's scowl darkened. And when Tom lowered himself to look straight at her with a standard charming smile, she crossed her arms over her chest. He wasn't charming her into a stupor.

"Hi," he said. So he was starting off slowly. Clearly, he'd read up on the art of introducing oneself to a partner's kids. _Dad wouldn't have to do that_, Imogen thought as she continued to glare. Tom's smile widened in defence, but the terrified nervousness in his eyes was obvious.

"I'm Tom. I know your mummy."

"That's quite clear," Imogen said shortly, glancing quickly towards her mother. "And she's not my mummy; I'm not five. She's my mum."

"Okay, so she's your mum. That's cool. I hope we can get to know each other; your mom's told me a lot about you."

There was a painstaking moment of silence as Imogen's gaze swept over the man. Already she felt irritated by him. She knew who he was, and she knew why he was here—all of that was obvious—so why did he feel the need to treat her like an idiot? She glanced at her mother, back to Tom, back to her mother and back to Tom again.

Finally, she spoke. "No."

Without hesitating, she quickly stuck out her tongue, turned on her heels and ran towards Emma's bedroom.

* * *

Mary was the one to chase after her. Mary was also the one to sigh heavily and lean against the doorway as she watched Imogen petulantly unpack, her gaze following every movement the angry eleven year old made.

"How long?" was the first question from Imogen's mouth.

"Four months. They're very much in the… honeymoon period."

"Where did she meet him?"

"Work—he's a temporary replacement for your mum's colleague. He seems perfectly nice, from what I've seen of him."

Imogen stopped and tilted her head, frowning. "Yet you don't like him."

"Christ," Mary said with a chuckle as she stepped into the bedroom and shut the door behind her. "Can't hide anything from you can I? No, I don't like him at all."

"Why? Is it his smile?"

Mary shook her head and gently sat on the bed. "No. My reasoning's a little more superficial than that. See, Tom never showed much interest in Molly until he learned of the existence of your grandparents."

Although she didn't show it, Imogen quickly racked her brain, rifling through the various lessons Emma had given her. Then it hit her: Nana and Granddad. They had moved out to America soon before their mother had done so, wanting to expand their wine making business. They'd succeeded too, and were now very rich. Emma had complained regularly about the annual camping trip she had had to make every year there since she was small. She'd complained about Nana's constant need to pick at her and clean, despite the maids she employed to keep their house spick and span every moment of every day. She had even gone so far as to nickname their Nana 'The Hoover' because of the frequency in which she used it. Their Granddad however, was clearly Emma's favourite. She only ever spoke favourably of him, spinning endless tales about the antics she and him would get up to during those summers.

Imogen shook her head and returned to the conversation in hand. "You think he's after Mum's inheritance?"

"I'm not saying anything," Mary said, raising an eyebrow. "Your mum's clearly happy with him."

"Yes, well. It's like I said—I don't trust him. It's his smile."

* * *

Fortunately, Tom seemed to notice that his presence wasn't entirely welcome, and after giving her mother some fairly disgustingly affectionate kisses goodbye, he left. For the rest of the afternoon and the evening, Imogen spent almost every moment she could with her mother. Even if they did the most mundane of activities and just watched the television for an hour or two, Imogen didn't care. She was just happy to be with her mother.

Emma had talked about their mother a lot during their time at camp, but the one thing her words had been unable to capture was just how _warm_ their mother was. It seemed to radiate from her; this inherent kindness that she had, an innate ability to please anyone and everyone. Her smile alone lit up a room. It was easy to see why Emma loved her so much, and it was especially easy to see how their father could've fallen in love with her.

It was strange to her really, being the other side of the world and without her father. She supposed she should've felt scared or homesick or both. Funnily enough, she didn't—the pleasure of being with the mother she had never known was more than enough of a distraction. Of course she missed her father; she'd missed him for the entire time she had been at camp. But now, as she sat curled up on the squashy sofa with her mother, she missed him for an entirely different reason. It just felt… it felt like even though there were two people in that room, the room was still vastly empty. It felt like there should've been two more people there, taking up the unused spaces.

Two people who were currently on the other side of the world in a flat above a sandwich shop.

And it was at that moment that Imogen realised that the rip went much further than an old photograph.


	7. Chapter 7

Emma was woken up by the sound of a very impatient and very rude ringing. Grumbling under her breath, she drew herself up in bed and reached out to slam at the alarm button. When the ringing didn't stop, it took her a moment to realise that it was her phone, the call screen glowing with Imogen's name. With a tired groan, she picked it up and clamped it to her ear.

"Emma! I am so glad you picked up!"

"Immy, it's 2 in the morning. Can't this wait?"

"No," Imogen snapped. "It can't."

"Alright, alright," Emma said with a sigh as she leant against the headboard. "But make it quick. My eyelids are already drooping here."

"Okay, so I met Mum—and oh my, but she's wonderful, you didn't do her justice I swear—but we have a problem." Imogen took a breath before continuing, almost as if she was preparing herself.

"Mum's in love."

Emma's only response was to snort. "Nonsense. Mum doesn't fall in love. I told you that."

"Well, she's got a boyfriend at least! His name's Tom, and frankly, he's an idiot. He even looks a little bit like Dad!"

"Then we've got nothing to worry about," Emma said, snuggling down into her duvet and yawning. "The fact that he looks like Dad is just proof."

"Proof of what?"

"That Mum's still in love with him. It won't last."

Imogen sighed. "I don't know, Em. He kept kissing her when he left today, and she didn't seem to mind it."

"Hm. Clearly she likes him a little bit if she lets him kiss her. Tell you what; keep tabs on him for the next few days, see what happens."

"Okay, I'll do that," Imogen said after a moment, but Emma knew her twin, and she knew when she was trying to hide her disappointment. She smiled.

"Just because you've got to keep tabs on them doesn't mean you can't indulge in a little bit of sabotage."

"I wasn't suggesting that!"

Emma scoffed. "Yes you were."

Imogen giggled quietly. "Yeah, I guess I was. Speak to you soon?"

"Speak soon. Love you."

"Love you too."

Emma had just about hung up and was ready to go back to sleep when there was a knock on her door, rapid but gentle. The universal sign of a concerned father.

Sure enough, her father's voice floated through the door. "Immy? Are you awake?"

Emma didn't reply, curling up in the bed and shutting her eyes. She kept her eyes shut even when she heard the door open and heard her father creep inside, his bare feet barely making a sound on the wooden floor. She kept her eyes shut as his fingers delicately brushed her hair out of her face and as he kissed her gently on the top of her head.

"Sleep well," he murmured before he left again, shutting the door behind him. Emma still kept her eyes shut, now well on the way to sleep, but the smallest of smiles crept onto her face. It stayed there right up until she awoke six hours later to the sounds of Bach. Her smile widened as she sat up and tiptoed out of the bedroom. She followed the sound to the living room where she found her father, stood at the window and dressed in his pyjamas and dressing gown whilst spread out on the floor there were a series of case files. Unlike when she had arrived, he noticed her immediately and grinned, drawing his bow away and putting his violin to one side.

"Morning," he said brightly as he sat cross-legged on the floor and glanced at the case files (which were, if the way he went through them was anything to go by, in some sort of discernable order). Emma gently moved towards him and he motioned for her to sit in his lap. She did so.

"What are you doing then?"

"Studying."

"Oh." She had to stop herself from asking what the term meant (no doubt Imogen would know already). For the time being, she decided that it meant he was probably looking over old cases to see if they brought up anything new for his current case.

"What's the case?"

"Burglary," her father said matter-of-factly, picking up one case file from the year 2007 and flicking through it before he dropped it back on the floor. "Thought it was an open-and-shut, but—"

His mutterings were cut off by the sound of footsteps. Both father and daughter looked up to see a grey-haired man of about 50-odd standing in the doorway. Sherlock took one look at the man and his brows furrowed.

"No."

"Five minutes."

"Lestrade—it's a no."

"Is this a homicide?" Emma asked quietly, to which Lestrade blinked and her father nodded.

"And that is precisely why I am saying no."

"What, because of me?"

Her father nodded again. Emma fought the temptation to pout or argue—Imogen probably wouldn't question her father's refusal, so she wouldn't either. Lestrade sighed.

"We really, really need your help. Can't Mrs Hudson look after Immy for a bit?"

"Lestrade, considering you have children of your own, I'd assume you'd be a bit more sympathetic about my refusal?"

"I know, but this is a 10, Sherlock."

Her father straightened up slightly, interested but wary. "A genuine 10 or a lying-to-try-and-get-me-interested 10?"

Lestrade's answer came without hesitation. "Genuine."

Her father huffed, but she could tell that he was itching to go. Without saying a word, she stood up and was quickly followed by her father.

"I'll look after Immy," Lestrade offered. "Dimmock's down there, so you should be able to have a look without punching anyone."

"Is Anderson there?"

"Yes, but with a whole team of other pathologists, so you won't be forced to work with him. Stop making excuses Sherlock. I can look after Immy for five minutes—only five minutes mind you—"

"I'll only need five," her father said, sniffing slightly with contempt and squaring his shoulders. Emma stifled a giggle as he disappeared from the room to get dressed, his phone already in his hand and tapping out a text (to John she presumed), leaving her and Lestrade alone. Lestrade smiled, shoving his hands in his pockets.

"So… do you mind if I have a cuppa?"

She shook her head, and followed on as Lestrade quickly entered into the kitchen. She sat herself at the table and watched him. It was like watching someone go around a kitchen showroom—familiar with the equipment but oh-so-careful not to break anything. When he did turn around, he jumped slightly at the sight of her but smiled all the same to take a sip of tea.

There were a few moments of silence between them which was only broken by the sound of her father saying goodbye, promising to be back in 5 minutes and closing the door behind him.

"He really likes his work, doesn't he?" She said it more to herself, but Lestrade still felt the need to answer her.

"Yeah," he said, putting his cup of tea on the kitchen table and sitting down opposite her. "Though sometimes… no."

"What is it?"

"Sometimes, with him—sometimes you get the feeling he's not entirely happy you know?"

She leaned forward. "Like he's missing something, you mean?"

"Uh—I guess so. I mean, he's a nightmare often enough, but it's not difficult to wonder if there's a reason for it. Everyone's got a reason, right?"

She didn't dare tell him that he was looking at the reason he spoke of.

Another few seconds of awkward silence ticked by. Lestrade broke it with a heavy sigh as he checked his watch. "Four minutes left."

"Great!" Emma said, jumping off her stool. "I'm going to go and watch television."

* * *

The remaining four minutes ticked by, and footsteps—heavier than her father's—sounded on the steps. John stepped through the front door. Both Emma and Lestrade frowned.

"I'm relieving you," John said cheerfully as he went into the kitchen. "Sherlock needs you on the scene."

Lestrade grumbled under his breath and swiftly departed from the flat. (Emma decided to ignore any swearing she might've heard as he passed her.) John entered the living room a few moments later, carrying a cup of tea. On seeing the scattered case files, he rolled his eyes but eventually decided to leave them, sinking into the second armchair in the living room and beginning to drink his tea.

"So, Immy. How was camp?"

Emma shrugged and curled up on the sofa. "It was good—I had a really great time. Made a few friends, actually."

John broke into a sunny grin. "Great. Your dad will be pleased to know that. I hope Lestrade wasn't too grumpy with you today."

"No, he was fine," Emma said with a shrug. She left it a moment before she spoke again, swallowing slightly. "Do you think… do you think my dad's happy?"

To her surprise, John sighed, almost as if he'd talked about this before. (She silently thanked Imogen's endless curiosity for that.) Finally, he spoke.

"Honestly? Don't know. I gave up trying to work out what your dad thinks long ago."

"Yeah, but… if you had to give an answer, what would you say?"

"I'd say… I'd say it's none of your business."

Emma stuck out her tongue and wrinkled her nose, to which John laughed.

"Okay, you got me," he said, putting his tea to one side. "So, your dad. He is happy, believe me. Especially when he's on a case. But there's something... something missing, you know?"

John didn't elaborate further than that. He didn't get the chance, as the sound of his phone ringing distracted him. It was clearly his girlfriend—she could tell by the fact that he sat up a little straighter and his smile went slack. So it wasn't going well. Maybe she was shouting at him.

"Having a small domestic?" her father asked from behind her. Emma grinned and turned her head to see him standing at the front door, peeling off his gloves and his scarf as he stepped inside. She jumped off the sofa and ran towards him to hug him tightly in greeting.

"Hello," he said softly, gently stroking at her hair. "Sorry for taking so long. Anderson was being annoying."

"It's fine," Emma said, stepping away from him and sitting back on the sofa. "Uncle John and I were just talking."

Her father tilted his head slightly as he looked at her and settled into his own armchair. "Oh? About what?"

"Yes, I know," John said, voice hushed as he spoke into his phone. "Look, it was a 10. Sherlock wouldn't have texted me if it wasn't urgent—No, Sasha, c'mon, don't be like that—"

He sighed as the woman on the other end of the call apparently hung up on him. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. He didn't need to; his expression said everything. It was remarkable really, how Uncle John and Sherlock could communicate a whole conversation just through their facial expressions. It actually reminded Emma a little of Mary.

"Sorry that your girlfriend dumped you." Her sudden statement earned a frown from both men and an odd sort of silence.

Imogen's words ran through her head. _Our Dad is one of the cleverest men in the world!_

John broke the silence with a sigh and a straightening of his shoulders. "Well. I should be going. I've got an interview later." He looked to Sherlock. "Text me if there are any developments, yeah?"

Her father gave a sharp nod in reply. Satisfied, John departed, giving Emma a cheerful wave as he went. Emma smiled and looked back to her father as she tucked her knees under her chin.

"Dad…"

"What is it? Busy," he grunted. Imogen had mentioned this. His mind palace. Now she was seeing it in action, it didn't seem like such a ridiculous premise.

But she wasn't going to give up just because of a mind palace. She tried again.

"I want to talk about Mum."

Her father's eyes snapped open. The look he gave her was cautious.

"Why?"

"Because I'm almost 12 years old, and I don't even know her name. She can't have vanished, Dad."

When her father remained stoic in his silence, she sighed and got to her feet, moving over to him to poke at his sides. He grunted again.

"You're not going to give up, are you?"

She shook her head, and he rolled his eyes, sitting up and patting his lap. Emma grinned and happily sat on his lap, where he cuddled her close.

"So, should I start at the beginning? Or is that too conventional?"

"Actually, could you… I was just wondering—why did you and Mum break up? Was it because of me?"

Her father went silent again, his lips thinning. She sighed, nudging him a little.

"Come on Dad. Please?" she asked, eyes wide as they could go. He gave her a look, but when she pouted, he relented, giving out a sigh.

"Your mother and I… I suppose it's because we were just too young. Did things too fast."

"How old were you when you broke up?"

"I was 28. She was 26."

"So that would make her… 37, wouldn't it?"

Her father nodded and she curled closer to him, tightening her hands into fists and releasing them again as she summoned up the courage to speak.

"Do you think—do you think that, if you ever met her again, you'd be the right age?"

The only response she got to that was a somewhat terse mumble of the subject being closed. Emma nodded, biting back a smile. She knew what it meant when adults avoided questions. It meant they didn't want to give the answer.

Unfortunately for her father, but fortunately for her, his expression gave away that unspoken answer: _yes._


	8. Chapter 8

The next few days in Phoenix, Arizona was a busy time for Imogen. In the last four months, Tom seemed to have made himself an almost permanent fixture in her mother's life. He visited every morning, dropping off food, flowers or any other kind of gift that he 'just happened' to buy. Sometimes, if it was his day off, he'd stay behind to look after her whilst her mother went to work. (It was on those days that the silence practically echoed off the walls.) He tried his damnedest to charm her, giving her gifts of dolls and teddy bears and other gifts well below her age range, but Imogen could see and smell a rat when she saw one. And there was no way in hell she would allow a rat to get close to her mother.

Apparently, Mary felt the same, as she saw no qualms in aiding Imogen in the sabotage. If Molly and Tom happened to be going to the park for a walk, or to the cinema to see a movie, either Mary and Imogen would accompany them, with Imogen citing the need to be in Molly's company and Mary claiming she'd "been hankering to see that movie for ages".

Her mother seemed perfectly fine with the idea of having either her daughter or her friend as escorts, but for Tom, the appeal seemed to wear off rather quickly and after the first three days, his visits became a lot less frequent. (He claimed it was work, but Imogen knew different.)

As a result, mother and daughter were able to spend a lot more time together. Much of their time was spent in the apartment, playing board games, watching television, cooking or dancing to music. The rest of their time was spent outside, either going for walks with Charlie or shopping. Today though, they were going to the park. Her mother had remained coy on why exactly they were going, but all became clear when they got there and she brought out a large picnic blanket and basket out from the car boot.

The park was just a small local park—nothing akin to Hampstead Heath or Hyde Park—but it was nice enough with the sun shining through the trees and plenty of places for families to sit themselves. Molly and Imogen settled underneath a large enough tree, making the most of the shade they could as they slowly made their way through the various treats that Molly had prepared.

"Mum—" Imogen said eventually. "I think it's time to talk about the F word."

Her mother almost choked on the strawberry she was eating. "The F word?!"

"Yeah, you know—_my father._"

"Oh. _That_ F word. What do you want to know about him?"

"How you met might be a start."

At this, her mother laughed. "True. Well, we actually met through work, back when I lived in London. Much like Tom and me, actually."

A loud cry sounded behind them. "Molly! Emma!"

Imogen swallowed a groan. _Speak of the devil._

Tom came running up the path, clad in a suit and tie. Running his fingers through his curls, he came to a stop beside them, smiling down at Molly.

"A picnic and you didn't invite me? I'm offended!" he said playfully. Molly smiled and stood up, brushing herself down.

"Hello," she said brightly before she gave him a quick peck on the cheek. "I thought you were at work."

"I was just on my way there," he murmured, his lips close to Molly's ear. Imogen pointedly looked the other way, but she couldn't help but hear what Tom had to say next. "Have you told her yet?"

Just hearing those words caused Imogen's heart to do something she had previously thought impossible: it sank. Strangely enough, her first thought wasn't for herself, but for Emma. She had always been adamant that their mother hadn't moved on, and yet here Imogen sat with the evidence right in front of her that their mother was doing exactly the opposite. She was moving on, and she was forgetting their father. She couldn't even fully remember how they had met, for Christ's sake! Their plan had failed even before it had begun.

"Well," Tom said, his voice more irritating than it had ever been, "I'd best be going. I don't wanna miss the meeting. I'll see you later Molls." He kissed her quickly and turned away, continuing down the path's pathway, the damage already done.

Imogen didn't even have to look at her mother to know that she knew she had heard—that she knew just exactly what it was she needed to be told.

Slowly, her mother crouched down, her eyes locked on the now frozen Imogen.

"Em—I wanted to tell you—"

No. She couldn't do it. She couldn't face it. Not now.

Moving before she could think, she ran down through the park, her feet flying over the grassy ground. She heard her mother call her name, but she kept running. She wouldn't hear it. She just wouldn't.

When she felt herself being tugged back, she stopped. She didn't even have time to catch her breath before her mother was knelt before her and was pulling her into a tight hug. Her chest heaved, and she realised with a start that she had been crying. Her sobs came out in short, heavy breaths, ugly in their force.

"I'm sorry—I'm so sorry—" her mother said quickly as she kissed at her hair and drew back to wipe away the tears that streamed down Imogen's face. "Christ, you scared me! Please, please don't ever do that again."

"I don't… want… you to… marry…" Imogen sobbed, but her mother shushed her, squeezing her shoulders in a gesture of comfort. She smiled widely.

"Don't worry. We'll leave it for another day, okay?"

Imogen pressed her lips together. "Okay."

* * *

They made their way back to the apartment in silence. When they got there, Charlie greeted them with a cheerful bark, his dog brain blissfully unaware of the tension that had surfaced between mother and daughter, and he scampered on behind their heels as they stepped towards the living room. Together, Imogen and Molly sunk into the sofa and remained there for a good few minutes, silently cuddling one another. Eventually though, her mother had to leave. It was with a smile and a promise to be back soon (she avoided mentioning Tom) that she said goodbye. Imogen just about managed to return the smile, but it had little to no potency behind it. Yet her mother continued to smile even as she stood up, got her bag and left.

It was funny really. In all of the excitement and intrigue that came with keeping tabs on her mother's love life, Imogen hadn't really been given the chance to look around the apartment that Emma called home. She had grown familiar with it over the time she had been there, but it had always been in her peripheral vision. It had never been the focus of her concentration. Now that it was, she found herself to be quite surprised by what she saw. It was bigger—much bigger—than Baker Street, with cleanly painted walls and parquetted wooden floors. The furniture was homely and there had obviously been no expense spared in the purchase of it. Photographs and mementos were dotted on various surfaces, all shining examples of the life she had missed out on. (She briefly wondered if Emma felt the same as she did when she looked at photos of their father with Imogen.) Meanwhile, the hallway was like most hallways—clean, but cluttered with coats, bags, shoes and far too many umbrellas for a two-person household.

She hesitated to step inside her mother's bedroom. That was after all, private to her mother. The clue was in the name. She heard Emma inside her head. _C'mon, don't be a spoilsport! Do it! You never know; you might find something interesting._

"Two minutes," she told herself. "Then you're out of there." It was with that that she gripped the door handle and stepped inside.

Her mother's room wasn't quite what she expected; though to tell the truth, she hadn't really thought about what her mother's bedroom would look like. She might've expected it to be quite feminine. Certainly it was feminine with its white coloured walls and lightly-coloured bedspread, and the various trinkets and mementos that were dotted around the room on various surfaces (her bedside table being one), but aside from that it was quite standard.

A set of bookshelves was what caught her eye. She stepped towards them, her fingers reaching out and tracing over the titles that were lined up. Some were scientific journals. Others were books that had been bought but never read. There was one book however that carried all the marks of being well-thumbed and frequently read. A copy of Grimm's Fairy Tales, its pages had yellowed over the years.

That made the envelope sticking out of the top of the pages all the more noticeable.

_Hm. Odd_.

Carefully, Imogen took the book from the shelf and opened it, flicking through the pages. Her heart almost stopped when she saw the loopy handwriting across it, forming one very familiar name: Sherlock Holmes.

Any thoughts of privacy went from Imogen's head and she peeled the envelope open. She had to read it. There had to be something about them, about what had happened in there. Why else wouldn't her mother send it? What would be the point otherwise of keeping an unsent letter in what was obviously her favourite book?

Her eyes scanned the letter. With every line, her heart broke a little more.

* * *

_August 19__th __2004._

_Hi Sherlock._

_It's me. It's Molly. Emma just turned two, if you want to know. Couple of days ago, actually. Me, I'm still a few weeks off. But you'd know that, wouldn't you? Well, you did. Maybe you've deleted it; maybe you've deleted me. Hard to tell really, when I'm practically on the opposite of the world to you. You know, I could've moved to Wales, or even Ireland but no. I moved to America. Guess I'm just dramatic that way, eh?_

_Oh, but Emma… she's so adorable, Sherlock. She's got your hair. I mean, it's not as curly as yours, but it's getting there. I'm hoping she keeps it short—can you imagine brushing long hair as curly as yours? Gosh! I struggled to comb your hair sometimes, and that was shorter than short. I wonder if it's grown out by now. Probably._

_I'm using that word a lot nowadays. Will you be able to come out for drinks tonight? Probably. Do you think Emma could come over to play? Probably. Can I really afford that extra bar of chocolate? Probably. Are you available for coffee when you come off shift? Probably._

_Should you and I ever have divorced?_

_Of course, we all know what that word means, don't we? I know I do. Do you? (God, now I'm sounding like that Jareth character from that film, Labyrinth. Just don't get me started on voodoo, okay?) But yeah. "Probably". It's just another way of softening the blow, isn't it? Really, what I'm saying is "yes, but it's inevitably going to be no."_

_But Emma. That's who I wanted to talk about. Emma, Emma, Emma. Like I said, she's adorable. She's walking and talking too (they usually do at this age). She's a regular little chatterbox—but she certainly doesn't get it from me! Honestly, I see so much of you in her. It's like living with a pocket version of you. I wonder what Imogen's like. Is she like you? Or perhaps Mother Nature's played a cruel trick on us. Maybe we're living with mini-versions of each other._

_I don't mind that though, I find. It's quite funny really, I think. By having a mini-version of you, I'm getting all these tiny reminders. Your hair's one, obviously. Your piercing, I-can-see-into-your-soul gaze. (Let me tell you, seeing that on a two year old is very weird if you're not used to it!) She hasn't quite got it yet, but I'm pretty sure she'll have your wit too._

_Yeah. All little reminders._

_Maybe I should come out and say it, right here and now. After all, there's no-one to see me, and there's no-one to hear and chastise me for it._

_I miss you, Sherlock. It's stupid I know. After two years away from you, I should be over you by now—I should be moving on. So why aren't I? It's not the superficial things I miss however (though there is a serious lack of cheekbones around here); it's the little things. The things that make me smile, like your mind palace; the things that make me laugh like I've never laughed before or since. I even miss the things that infuriate me, like your almost violent distaste for boredom. (I do feel sorry for that poor wall—has it received any more beatings over the years? I hope not.) But yes, I miss you—in spite of your intolerance for walls._

_Sometimes, when I'm lonely—always when I'm lonely—I wonder if you miss me too. I wonder if you've still got space for me in that mind palace of yours. I wonder if you look at Imogen, and see me like I see you when I look at Emma. I wonder, when/if you do, you feel the same ache that I do._

_I wonder other things too, if you're, uh, wondering. (But be honest, it's a miracle you're still reading this.) I wonder how Imogen's doing. God, but do I wonder. I hope she's doing well. She probably is, considering she's got you for a dad. I bet Mycroft spoils her rotten. Has she already got security clearance, or is that for her 5__th__ birthday? Sorry. Couldn't help myself._

_There's one big thing that I wonder though. It's probably the one thing I think about most. Were we right? Did we—have we—done the right thing?_

_Well. I don't know about you, but I think I know the answer to that._

_And it's that damn word all over again: Probably._

* * *

She was crying again. But now, she didn't know why. Was it because she was upset? Or was it because she was angry? Perhaps it was a mixture of both.

Automatically, her fingers found her phone, buried deep in the pocket of her jeans. Automatically, she tapped in a number she knew well.

It took two rings for her sister to answer. The first thing she heard was a wide yawn.

"We've got to work on a schedule or something. You realise it's what, 3 in the morning here?"

"I know, I'm sorry. I just—I had to talk to someone."

Imogen could almost hear her sister jerk upright in concern. "What is it? What's happened?"

"A lot of things really. Mum's engaged."

"What? No, you're wrong—Mum would never—"

"She is. She told me. But that's not the worst thing."

Emma scoffed. "Oh really? And what could be worse than our Mum getting engaged?"

"I found a letter, in Mum's room. Em… she still loves Dad."

"Yet she's marrying someone else?"

"I don't know either. I think she's trying to move on."

"Yeah," Emma said quietly. "Yeah. I'm sure she is."

Imogen frowned, clutching her phone tighter to her ear. "Em? What's wrong?"

"Oh, nothing. Nothing's wrong. It's just… I guess I thought I was enough for her, you know."

To this, Imogen had no reply. Emma's words seemed to echo, reverberating through her mind. She tried to speak, but nothing of worth came—just a small mumbled "sorry". Emma, of course, dismissed it with a soft, breezy laugh. She claimed she was being silly, and with that, she hung up.

Imogen only realised she was still holding onto her phone when she heard the front door slam.

* * *

Emma was numb. For the first time in her life, she was well and truly numb, from head to toe. She didn't really know what she was most upset about it. Was it the fact that she was no longer enough? Or was it the fact that her mother wouldn't ever get what she truly wanted?

Her duvet felt too hot now. She had to move—had to get some air, somewhere to breathe. As quietly as she could, she moved out of her bedroom and out of the flat, tiptoeing down the stairs. (She was careful to avoid the one that creaked.) When all she could see was the front door to 221, she finally stopped and sat on the bottom step. Ever so slowly, her fingers wound themselves into her hair and she curled herself up into a ball. Silent tears, hot against her skin, dripped down her cheeks.

Everything about her hurt. Her stomach was twisted into knots, and her head spun as her mind refused to settle on one single thought. Was this what it was like for her father—oh God. Her father; her dad. Sherlock Holmes. It wasn't just her mother who wasn't getting what she truly wanted. It was him too. And the most frustrating thing about it was they had done this themselves. They were the ones who had separated their children; the ones who had to move across the whole Atlantic Ocean just to try and move on from one another. Merely thinking about it made her want to scream.

A warm hand touched at her shoulder. Her head snapped up and she was met by the sympathetic gaze of Mrs Hudson, who on seeing a crying girl sitting on the bottom stair, smiled.

"Hello," she whispered.

"Hello."

"Do you want me to get your Dad?"

Emma shook her head, wiping at her nose. "No, no. I'm fine. I'll be fine."

"Not on that step you won't," Mrs Hudson said, her tone as sympathetic as ever. "There's a terrible draft. You'll get so cold. Come on love. I'll get you a cup of tea."

Emma was up on her feet before she realised that she was moving. Mrs Hudson wrapped her arm around her shoulders, hugging her tight. Emma instinctively looped her arms around Mrs Hudson's waist, snuggling close to her as they crept into 221A.

Mrs Hudson's flat was stuffy in its warmth, but it was better than sitting outside on the bottom step. Humming slightly to herself, Mrs Hudson bustled around her small kitchenette, making up two cups of tea and putting biscuits on a small china plate. Emma smiled wryly when she placed the plate in front of her. Rich Teas. Of course—the staple British comfort food. Almost idly, she picked one up and nibbled at it, even though she couldn't really registering the taste, not with her mind still racing like it was. For the next few moments, Mrs Hudson continued to make the tea until finally she turned round, tray in her hands. Carefully, she moved towards the small table and sat down, gently pushing the tray towards Emma. With a grateful smile, she took one of the mugs and blew on it before she took a sip. Mrs Hudson picked up the other mug and with her elbows propped up on the table, she smiled.

"Feeling better?"

"Much, thank you."

"Do you want to talk about it dearie? I'm all ears if you do. After all, sometimes it's nice to have someone to lean on, isn't it?"

Emma nodded and wiped at her eyes. She wouldn't start crying again. Just because someone was being kind didn't mean she should lose her mind.

"It all seemed so easy at camp." She'd meant to think it, but somehow with the combination of kind words, tea and a stuffy flat, she had ended up talking. Mrs Hudson frowned, sitting up slightly.

"What did dear?"

Christ, but she needed to tell someone. _Anyone_. Even if it was the elderly landlady of her father. Sighing heavily, she put down her tea and her hands fell into her lap. She kept her eyes focused on them as she spoke again.

"Did you know that I had a twin sister?"


	9. Chapter 9

_**Author's Note: **__Quite a short chapter this time around, but it does move the plot along, so there's that. Hope you enjoy it! Oh, and so many thanks to everyone who has followed, favourited and reviewed thus far!_

* * *

"You found it then."

Imogen almost jumped out of her skin at the sound. Whipping round, she saw Mary leaning against the doorway, arms folded over her chest.

_Lie_, her brain told her. _Lie through your teeth. Come on! Make something up!_

She didn't do anything of the sort. It would've been pointless if she had. Even the most unobservant of people would've pieced it together by now. Mary sighed and sat on the bed, patting the space beside her. Slowly, Imogen sat the letter still in her hands. Mary still said nothing; simply waited.

Finally, Imogen spoke. "Why didn't she send this? Why?"

Mary shrugged. "Scared I guess. Scared that he would run after her."

"But why would she be scared? My dad wasn't abusive—was he?"

Mary shook her head. "No, he wasn't. Of course he wasn't. But you know when you want something—and I mean really want something? Well, sometimes, we can want something so much… we get scared of it. That's what happened with your mum."

"Not _everyone_ gets scared," Imogen said quietly, looking everywhere but Mary. She shouldn't be doing this—she shouldn't have even been thinking of doing it. God, but Emma would be so angry with her. But she could trust Mary. She knew that.

Mary frowned. "What did you say?"

"I said, not everyone gets scared. You say that people can become scared of what they really want, but… but what if you want something so much… God, I'm not putting this right. Imagine there was something you wanted, more than anything. Imagine you've waited your whole life to have it. Well, you'd do anything to get it. Wouldn't you?"

"Yes, I guess I would, but what has this got to do with anything?"

Imogen took a deep breath and finally looked at Mary full in the face. "I'm not Emma."

A gasp shot through Mary, and her hands flew to her mouth in shock, her slate blue eyes widening in disbelief as she gazed at Imogen with new eyes. Gradually, her hands fell away from her face.

"You're not Em? You're… oh my God. You're _Immy_?"

"I am." She was immediately swept up into the tightest hug she had been given by an adult, and she heard Mary let out a loud belly laugh.

"Oh my God," she said again, pulling away and grinning. "Immy, oh my—just… how? I remember when you were a tiny baby—I was at your christening, don't you remember? Oh, of course you don't! But now look at you! All tall, and gangly, and _curly_! How did you—?"

"Mum and Dad sent me and Emma to the same summer camp," Imogen explained with a laugh. Mary rolled her eyes and let out another laugh, biting at her bottom lip.

"Great minds think alike, eh?"

"Seems like it," Imogen said. Her cheeks almost ached from the wideness of her smile. Mary hugged her again, just as the front door slammed and the sound of her mother's voice floated down the hallway.

"Anybody home? Em? Emma?"

The letter was snatched from her hands and she felt herself being pushed forward into the hallway. Imogen grinned as she locked eyes with her mother. "Hi mum," she heard herself say and her mother smiled, putting her things away as she moved into the kitchen.

"Everything go okay?"

"Yeah. Things went great. What do you want tonight? I can make some pizza if you like," her mother said, opening the fridge and looking inside. Imogen glanced into the bedroom to see that Mary was still hiding there, peeking out from behind the doorway. On seeing Imogen glance at her, she gestured towards Molly and quietly shut the door.

"Uh… pizza would be great," she said falteringly, stepping forward and sitting on one of the kitchen chairs. Her mother smiled widely and took out a pizza box, shutting the fridge with a deft push of her hips. Although she was smiling, Imogen could tell that she was avoiding touching on the sensitive subject that was her engagement.

In fact, she only broached it a little more than half an hour later when the two of them were sat at the kitchen table and both chewing lightly on warm pizza (Mary had quickly snuck out of the apartment whilst Molly was preoccupied with cooking).

"I guess I should come out and say it. Em… I'm marrying Tom."

She watched, anxious, as Imogen slowly finished off her slice of pizza in stone silence, making a point to look everywhere but her mother.

When she did look at her mother, her gaze was the most intense she had ever seen it. Molly almost had to restrain herself from flinching.

Yet still Imogen said nothing. If she said something, she might've started yelling. That or crying. Maybe both.

Instead, she just turned on her heels and stomped from the kitchen. The slam of her bedroom door followed soon after. Molly slowly leaned forward until her forehead bumped against the wood of the table. She let out a soft scream of frustration.

Inwardly, she chastised herself. She was a fool to have thought that Emma would take the news well. She'd hoped that maybe she would have had some time to think over and become more accepting of the news, but it was obviously not to be. Why Molly was surprised, she didn't quite know. Emma had never really been one for change, especially when she was younger. She hated seeing it happen in other people's lives; let alone her own.

She'd have to talk to her of course. Tell her that Tom was alright really. Despite Emma's propensity to think the opposite, he was a nice guy. Sweet, attentive, generous, handsome. He was everything she should want, and she did want him. Why else would she have said yes to the man if she didn't want him? And she couldn't keep waiting, not for... him (eleven years, and she still couldn't even name him in her own thoughts—how pathetic). Waiting didn't do anyone any good. And anyway, it wasn't fair on her; it certainly wasn't fair on Emma.

The sound of singing alerted her to the presence of her fiancé. She sat up, watching as Tom bounded into the room, a bouquet of red roses clutched in his right hand. Seeing Molly, he grinned and still singing, he moved over to her and kissed her hard on the cheek.

"Hey," he chirped, stroking at her upper arm. She tried a smile, but it didn't quite take. Tom frowned, raising her eyebrow.

"It went that bad huh?"

"Considering she's now locked in her bedroom, I'd say yes."

"Ah. No worries—I'll talk to her," he said. She tried to argue against the idea, but she was swiftly silenced by a quick, sudden kiss. Before she could blink in surprise, Tom was gone.

It was completely unfair. Imogen had decided that very quickly. She and Emma had gone to all of this trouble, and then their mother had to go and get engaged to someone else! Someone who she, by all accounts, didn't really love! She hugged her pillow tighter, curling her knees to her chest. She curled herself tighter when she heard a knock on the door. She rolled her eyes when she heard Tom's voice float through the door.

"Em…" he wheedled, knocking again. "Can you let me in? I just wanna talk."

"Go. Away."

"Aw, don't be like that. C'mon—it's best we be friends sooner rather than later."

Urgh. He just wasn't going to go away. Not if she kept the door closed anyway. With a heavy, sullen sigh she sat up and trudged towards her door, swinging it open. Tom grinned down at her, bringing a large rose bouquet from his back.

"Rose for the lady?" he asked. Imogen only glared, her gaze appraising him.

"You don't need to bother," she said crisply. "It's obvious what you're after."

Tom's bright, cheesy smile slacked but his eyes widened with feigned innocence.

"What?"

Imogen just snorted and stepped back into her bedroom, sitting on her bed. She glared again at Tom.

"You're only marrying my mum because of the money."

Tom laughed nervously, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. "What makes you say that?"

"Well, let's see. According to latest statistics, the average marriage lasts for 32 years. Let's assume that those couples have at least one thing in common. The only thing you've got in common with my mum is that you both work at the same hospital. Aside from that, you're horrendously different. Where you like sports, she likes romance. And where you like tea, she prefers coffee. I don't know about you, but I'm beginning to see a pattern."

Tom was no longer grinning. Instead, he looked downright annoyed. Glowering, he put his roses to one side and crouched in front of Imogen.

"Emma, you're going to listen to me, and you're going to listen well. Despite your attempts to derail it, I am still going to marry your mother, whether you like it or not. You can throw every tantrum you want—I don't care. And frankly, neither does your mom. We're still getting married either way. Is that clear?"

Imogen blinked, nonplussed by the display of testerone. Instead, she just smirked and raised an eyebrow. _Dad could wipe the floor with him, _she mused silently.

"Crystal."


	10. Chapter 10

Blissfully unaware of the discoveries made by her twin, Emma sat in her father's chair at 221b Baker Street, watching with a smile on her face at the gathering of people that were scattered around the living room. John was stood by the mantelpiece, along with her father; Mrs Hudson was sat on the sofa with Lestrade; and Mycroft was stood by the window, watching the party just as she did but with a keener eye. The atmosphere was easy; relaxed as the conversation flowed between all of the guests. (The only one to remain silent was her.)

"I hope the traffic isn't too bad," Lestrade muttered, glancing at his watch. "I promised the kids I'd be home before their bedtime."

"Well, if Mycroft doesn't start a war on the way home, I'm sure you'll be fine," her father said, earning a thin-lipped smile from Mycroft and a good-natured laugh from John and Mrs Hudson.

"I think Uncle Mycroft's probably more concerned with America's shutdown to be honest," Emma muttered. Only when she saw Mrs Hudson subtly shake her head did she realise the mistake she'd made. It was Mycroft however who was the one to make a point of it.

"And what do you know about that, Imogen?" he asked. Emma squirmed slightly in her seat. Although she only had the eyes of five people on her, it felt like it was the entire world looking at her. She had to get out of there.

That feeling only increased when her phone beeped. Quickly, she removed it from her jeans pocket and opened the message. It was from Imogen, but all that was included was a picture of a piece of paper. On that paper, there were three large letters: S.O.S.

Wobbling slightly, she got to her feet and smiled what she hoped was a polite one. "Excuse me. I just, uh—need some air. I'll only be a minute."

The silence as she left was almost deafening.

* * *

Once out of 221b, she was running; running as if her life depended on it. She had to talk to Imogen. It didn't matter if it was midnight over there—she just had to talk to her and find out what the hell was happening. After all, Imogen was supposed to be the calm one out of the two of them. Something had to have gone supremely wrong for her to send an S.O.S. message. Either that or she was overreacting. Whatever it was, she had to find out.

She turned the corner and her heart lifted when she saw two red telephone boxes standing there. She almost prayed God in thanks as she dove inside one and grabbed the phone. When she did finally connect, there were approximately three rings before a panicked voice answered. Emma sighed with relief. Imogen.

"Emma! Thank God you phoned! Where are you?"

"Phone box—it was the only way I could get some privacy. Anyway, what the hell's going on? What's happened? Is it Mum?"

"No, it isn't Mum. Well, it is her, but it's not directly her—"

Emma sighed. "Immy, you're panicking. Please, just calm down and tell me what's happened."

"Okay, well—Mum's getting married."

"You told me that already."

"I know, but Tom's so awful Em! He only wants Mum's inheritance—I don't think he even loves her!"

Oh. Well, that wasn't good. Wasn't good at all. Clearly, they had some work to do. "Okay," she said finally. "We have to work fast. I'll tell Dad about the whole thing tonight—"

"Em, no! You can't!"

"Why not?"

"Our father isn't exactly the most forgiving of men!"

"No, Immy, it'll be fine. Trust me. I'll talk to you later, okay?"

"Wait—" She didn't hear what else Imogen had to say, as she'd already hung up, burst out of the phone box and bumped straight into a thin-bordering-on-chubby man.

An apology began to trip off of her tongue, but it died away when she recognised the man as Mycroft Holmes.

She went white. He arched an eyebrow, raising his hand. A taxi pulled up beside the pavement.

"Well," he began, glancing at her. "I think it might be best if we take a small stroll in the park?"

"How long have you known?" she asked quietly. Either Mycroft failed to hear her or decided to ignore her, for he turned away from her and stepped inside the waiting taxi. It was with a sigh that she followed in afterwards, settling in beside him. The taxi driver pulled away, and Emma turned her head to look at the passing scenery. A long minute ticked by when Mycroft turned his head to look straight at her.

"To answer your question, I've known since the start."

Emma's stomach twisted into a knot, and she felt the stirring beginnings of nausea. Of course he'd known.

* * *

The silence between them was practically an ache. It remained for the entirety of the taxi journey, as they stepped outside and onto the large green plain. It was busy, but together they strolled down the path and sat on a lone wooden bench.

Emma couldn't hold it in anymore. She turned to Mycroft (who had remained remarkably impassive from the moment she'd stepped into the taxi). "Why didn't you say anything?"

"I didn't say anything, dear Emma,"—it actually felt quite weird to hear her name being said by someone who wasn't Imogen—"because I know that Imogen would never do something akin to this without due cause." Mycroft paused, fiddling a little with his umbrella. "And meeting the mother she's never known seems like a pretty good reason. Don't you agree?"

It practically snowballed from there. Aided by little nods of encouragement and occasional questions, she unveiled the whole scheme, even going so far as to mention her midnight confiding to Mrs Hudson. In all, it took her just under ten minutes. When she was finished, she paused for breath and glanced at her uncle.

"Will we get prosecuted for this?" she asked, but the answer she got was an amused chuckle.

"Wanting to meet your parents isn't a crime."

Emma flicked a grin at him. "Would you get Lestrade to arrest me if it was?"

Mycroft's eyes narrowed at this. The girl was far too observant for her own good—just like her father.

"Perhaps we should start to make our way back to Baker Street."

* * *

The relief that had been running through Emma ever since her time at the park with Mycroft slowly ebbed away as the taxi got closer and closer to Baker Street. (It didn't help that Mycroft kept trying to coach her on how to tell her father about the scheme.) When the taxi did pull up, she almost wanted to stay there until Mycroft gave up the whole idea and let her carry on with the lie. Sadly, her uncle seemed a lot more patient than she hoped and after a quick staring contest, she sheepishly stepped out of the taxi and headed into 221.

Inside, the party had apparently come to its natural end, as only Mrs Hudson was there, clucking over her father in her way and doing the washing up.

Mycroft stepped forward, steering Emma towards the vacant sofa and sitting her down. Her father watched them with a frown and leant back in his chair, steepling his fingers under his chin. Mycroft smiled a passionless smile at him.

"Brother, I think Imogen has something to say to you."

Her father's lips quirked at the edges. "What, that she's actually Emma?"

Emma's head snapped up and Mycroft's smile fell. Mrs Hudson came running into the living room, Marigolds on her hands, a tea towel in one and a platter plate in the other.

"You _know_?" Emma gasped, standing and running towards her father. "How? When?"

Her father grinned and got to his feet, moving towards her and crouching down in front of her to take her hands in his. "When you mentioned the American government. Immy never showed much interest in politics. She'd much rather read Jane Eyre for the fifth time than discuss anything to do with it," he said with a chuckle. Emma tried a smile, but it didn't take. She was too ashamed. She had after all lied to her father.

"Do you hate me? For lying to you?"

Her father's features softened as he broke into a wider and sunnier grin, tilting his head to one side. "I got to spend time with my second daughter. Do you really think I'm unhappy about that?"

Any worries she had fell from her shoulders and she sighed, throwing herself at her father and pulling him into a hug. They stayed there for a good few moments, and Mrs Hudson and Mycroft slowly made their way out of 221b.

"I suppose you have to switch me and Immy back now, don't you?" she said eventually. She felt her father nod as he drew away from her. (The sadness in his eyes actually hurt to see.)

"Well," he said with a small sigh. "From a legal standpoint at least, Immy belongs with me and you belong with Mol—" He paused, gulping slightly and trying—but failing—to hide his smile. "Your mother. But there's no need to worry; I'll sort everything out for you."

Emma nodded slowly as she deftly turned her head to suppress a smile. Eleven years, and he couldn't say her mother's name.

Quite clearly, there was some unfinished business there. Her heart lifted with the thought. (And she couldn't wait to tell Imogen.)

* * *

_**Author's Note:**__ Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed, favourited and followed this fic, including __**oxyjulquen, apedarling, star-eye, MizJoely, Empress of Verace, IceQueenforLife, ChloeisSherlocked, xxxMadameMysteryxxx, Renaissancebooklover108, Bella Cuore, Morbidby Default, Sepideh-the-sister, SpencerReidFan89, Padfootkicksbutt, Unicatacorn, .Alice, rivillie, Smiling Dreams, Minerva Nargles, blairbearwaldorf, SomeoneBorrowedMe, MegHolmes, CreamoCrop, Simplyspectating and nowsusieq**__! It's really touching to me that you're so entertained by it, and I hope to continue entertaining you with this story. Also, Merry Christmas and/or happy holidays to every one of you! I hope you all have a wonderful time!_


	11. Chapter 11

"You know, I blame Mycroft," Sherlock called, the sound of the shower unfortunately not quite covering the sounds of his voice. In the bedroom, John sighed and continued to pack his suitcase. For some reason, Sherlock had insisted on his coming along—he'd claimed it was because Imogen needed emotional support but after having listened to two days' worth of Sherlock's ranting, John had the strangest feeling that it was Sherlock, ever the eight year old, who needed this so-called 'emotional support'.

"John," Sherlock called again. "Did you hear me?"

"Yes, I did. And how exactly is Mycroft to blame?"

The sounds of the shower finished and were replaced with the sounds of an electric razor.

"Imogen's mother and I married young; the government shouldn't have allowed us to marry; Mycroft practically is the British government. Ergo, it's his fault."

"But you and Moll—"

Sherlock's head poked round the door, and he glared. John cleared his throat.

"I mean, Immy's mum was 26 when you two got married. That's hardly _young_."

His friend shrugged, glancing down at John's suitcase. "That's irrelevant. Now, John, as you've quite finished packing, you'll wish to leave and wait for me in the living room. Unless, of course, you wish to watch me get changed?"

John's answer came in the form of a swift exit.

* * *

Mercifully, he only had to wait fifteen minutes before Sherlock entered the living room, now fully dressed in one of his signature suits. John however, only had to take one look at him to know that he was filled to the brim with nerves. It was clear to see. After all, he was pacing and Sherlock only paced on two occasions: either when he was thinking about a case or when he was nervous.

He didn't get a chance to speak to Sherlock though as Emma had already bounded through the door, her long hair falling around her shoulders. Sherlock gave her a quick grin as she entered, but that fell when she peeked into the bedroom and directed a frown right at him.

"Dad, you've hardly begun to pack."

"I'll get it done…" Sherlock said defensively, clearing his throat. "Eventually."

"Well, you should, because we're due at the airport in, oh, a couple of hours? Anyway, I'll just go and say bye to Mrs Hudson—" She turned and began to run down the stairs, but she stopped when her father called her back, smiling.

"Yes, Dad?"

Sherlock shoved his hands in his pockets and turned on his heels slightly before speaking. "Um, so. You've—you've heard from your mother I suppose?"

Emma gave a swift nod. "I spoke to her just last night, and she's anxious to meet you."

A knowing grin grew over Sherlock's mouth, his eyes shining. "Liar."

To this, his daughter said nothing; instead she turned back around and jogged down the steps, throwing a reminder for him to pack over her shoulder as she went. A moment of silence passed in the flat before John gave out a low chuckle.

"She is _so_ like you," he said, shaking his head.

"Yes…" Sherlock replied, his smile growing as he touched his hands to his mouth. "That's the problem."

* * *

The Stafford Hotel was like many of the more upmarket American hotels Imogen had seen in magazines in movies. Expensive artwork lined the walls, modern furniture was dotted around the foyer and eons of men and women all dressed in sharply-suited uniforms swiftly moved through the building, smiling easily at the paying clients as they went about their duties. In a room just off the left of the reception area, there was situated a bar and sitting at that bar was a group of three. One of the members was Tom; the other two were his parents, the two of them as preen and as neat as each other.

"They should be here any minute now," Tom said cheerfully, taking a sip from his glass of wine. "And please, remember to be nice Mother—Molly Hooper is everything you could've hoped for me."

His mother laughed, touching at her hair and fiddling with the pearls strung around her neck as she did so. "If she's going to be as rich as you tell me she is, I'll be as nice as a politician on election day."

Tom's smile widened as he focused his gaze on the entrance. He didn't even to wait a moment before they opened and in came his fiancée, Molly Hooper. He waved heartily to gain her attention. Beside him, he heard his mother groan softly.

"Darling, her dress sense is hardly suitable for the Stafford Hotel—"

He silenced her with a slight pat of her hand. "Money, Mom. Just remember the money. Anyway, it's just her dress sense, that's something you can easily fix…"

_But not that_, he thought bitterly as he saw Mary, the dog Charlie (a dog? At the Stafford of all places?!) and that kid Imogen walk in after Molly.

His fiancée did not seem to share the same qualms as him, because she merely grinned on seeing him, waved back and quickly jogged towards him to greet him with a soft kiss on his cheek. Her greeting was swiftly followed by a deliberately bone-crunching hug from Mary, a quick nod from her daughter and a short bark from the dog. His parents, thankfully, had a touch of grace about them and received these sudden intrusions with a series of smiles and light kisses on the cheek.

"Sorry about bringing the family," Molly said as she wrapped an arm around her daughter's shoulders. "But Em practically begged me to let her come along."

"How accommodating of you," his mother said sweetly.

"Just wanted to see the place my mum would be getting married in," Imogen said brightly, clasping her hands together and glancing to Mary who immediately looked to Tom's parents.

"So, you're Tom's parents?" she asked, genial and sociable as ever. "May I say, you have raised a great son. He's so… ambitious."

Tom's father grinned and gripped at Mary's outstretched hand. "Thank you, Miss—?"

"Morstan. Mary Morstan."

"And this is the famous Emma," Tom's mother said, turning her all-too-sweet smile on Imogen (who just crossed her arms over her chest and looked at her with a somewhat cool gaze).

"Hello pet! We've heard so much about you! You can call me Aunt Viv, if you like, but I much prefer Aunt Vivian. I just know we're going to be the best of friends."

Imogen's cool gaze stretched into a civil smile and she gently shook her Aunt Vivian's hand. "Best of friends," she echoed. "I'm sure of it."

* * *

Outside the Stafford Hotel, things were a little… looser. A taxi pulled up, and John Watson stepped out. Emma was next, and they both wore different facial expressions. Where John was frowning in concern, Emma was rolling her eyes in frustration. However, both of those expressions were aimed at the same man.

The man who had chosen to exit the vehicle via crawling and then falling ever so gracefully onto the sidewalk.

"No, don't help me!" Sherlock snapped as John stepped forward, clambering clumsily to his feet. "I'll be fine—there's no need to help, not at all."

Both Emma and John watched, helpless, as the great detective finally stood straight, bleary-eyed and swaying on his feet a little. "I'm absolutely fine. That was a fine flight though, wasn't it? So quick!"

"Yes, Sherlock. I'm sure it was. Though I don't think you've ever been quite as thirsty as that."

Sherlock shrugged and took a packet of cigarettes from his inner jacket pocket. When Emma attempted to snatch them away from him, he gave out a groan but let her take them all the same.

"Why are you so bothered with looking after me? Honestly, you're like my brother. I said, I'm _fine_!"

"Yeah, just say that a little louder Dad," Emma said. "I don't think the Japanese couple over there heard you."

"Well that's their ruddy fault. Now go inside the pair of you, find your rooms. I'll check us all in."

John frowned, taking the suitcases from the taxi driver. "You will?"

"Consider it an act of charity," Sherlock mumbled. John rolled his eyes and stepped inside, ushering Emma along with him.

Sherlock left it a moment before he slipped his hand back into his jacket pocket and took out a second packet of cigarettes and his lighter. Sticking a cigarette into his mouth, he chuckled to himself and lit it. He knew John would disapprove, but in that moment and as drunk as he was, he really couldn't have cared. There were days when a cigarette was truly needed—and today was definitely one of those days.

* * *

Meanwhile, the source of Sherlock's building nerves was stepping out of the bar with her arms wrapped around the waist of her fiancé. Both of them were giggling. Imogen and Mary had already disappeared, claiming the need to check in and settle into their rooms whilst Tom's parents—lovely as they were—had claimed to want to spend a little more time in the bar.

The two of them slowly passed through the reception area and headed towards the elevators, with Molly barely registering the dark-haired man who stormed inside the reception and moved quickly towards the desk to be greeted by a smiling but slightly scared member of staff. Instead, she and Tom continued to walk, exchanging murmured conversations.

"What do you say we go and check out the Honeymoon Suite?" he said quietly as they came to a stop outside the elevators. "I bet it is to die for."

Molly smiled and pressed the call button. "I bet it is."

Tom laughed again and lightly kissed her once more. In front of them, the elevator doors slid open. They made to move inside, but that endeavour was rudely interrupted when a man pushed past Tom and stepped inside.

"Hey! You can't—"

Anything else Molly might've shouted went dry in her throat and she froze to the spot.

_His hair's longer_, she thought numbly.

The man she was staring so fixatedly at, the man with blue-green eyes and dark curly hair, went pale, his face draining of what little colour it had.

"Molls?" Tom asked. "Is everything okay?"

Slowly, the doors began to slide to a close. Yet still the man kept staring, leaning with his hand pressed against the elevator walls until finally, all Molly could see was herself; reflected in the gold sheen of the elevator.

It was only at that point that she realised she had begun to wave.

* * *

Sherlock stood against the walls of the elevator and tried to focus on breathing. If he was honest with himself, that probably should have gone a little bit better.

It definitely wasn't how he'd imagined meeting her again would go. Though, truth be told, he never quite knew how such a situation would take place—_if_ it ever took place that was. Now it had, and he'd managed to make an utter fool of himself. He'd managed to make an utter fool out of her too.

He had to talk to the girls—gather data. Most of all, he had to figure out what the hell he was going to do. This hadn't been part of the plan—it certainly hadn't been part of the girls' plan. It would also most definitely put a spanner in those plans of theirs. It was obvious of course, what they were trying to do. They were trying to set him and their mother up. It was a ludicrous plan, filled with holes and far too much reliance on coincidences and chance.

So why had he gone along with it? Well, the answer to that was obvious as well. He'd gone along with it because… well, because they were his daughters and he wasn't going to refuse them just like that! He also needed to get Imogen back, so there was that too. There was no other reason. There just couldn't be. Not at all.

The elevator came to a stop, and the doors easily slid open to a corridor. Sherlock practically dove out of the elevator and he advanced down the corridor, glancing at each door number. (It of course helped that he had no clue which one either of his daughters was in.) Finally, he came to a stop.

"Emma Hooper!"

The doors to rooms 253 and 261 opened simultaneously and both of his daughters stepped out, the two of them wearing exactly the same sheepish expressions. Sherlock groaned.

"God, don't do that; I'm already seeing double."

The twin standing in front of room 253 giggled and stepped forward. "Dad. It's me—I'm Imogen."

He sighed heavily with relief, and held out his arms. Imogen practically sprinted towards him and threw her arms around his waist, hugging him close. He let out a laugh and kissed her at the top of her head. Emma rushed forward too, and he wasted no time in drawing her into the hug. After a moment, he sighed and pulled away from them, his gaze moving between them.

"So, you've been… busy."

"Very."

A sunny, blonde-haired face poked round from the door of room 253. Sherlock frowned. Mary? Mary Morstan?

"Hi guys," she said, her voice lowered as she stepped out into the corridor, shutting the door behind her. "Don't you think it's best if we continue this conversation inside?"

He nodded sharply, standing up and brushing himself down. "Yes, of course. Come on girls. We'd best do as Miss Morstan says."

Mary frowned. "Wait—you remember me?"

Sherlock flashed a smile at her.

"Well, I never forget a face," he said as he steered the girls into room 261 and held the door open for her. Mary grinned and stepped past him, patting him on the shoulder as she went.

"Knew there was always a reason why I liked you," she said brightly. Sherlock rolled his eyes but shut the door all the same and moved forward towards the living area where he found that Imogen and Emma had sat themselves in an armchair each, both wearing those same sheepish expressions. Carefully, he settled into the sofa, laying down and pressing his hands together to tuck them underneath the point of his chin.

"Right. So, where shall we start? Shall we begin right at the start, or at the point where I just managed to make not just a fool out of myself but also your mother—who, as I strongly suspected, had no clue that I even intended to be here?"

Imogen's face fell. "Oh no. You've met Mum already?"

"Yes, Immy, indeed I have. And if her expression was anything to go by, I am in fact not a person at all but a corporeal spirit wandering the halls of the Stafford Hotel."

"How poetic," Emma muttered.

A whistling filled the room, and in strolled John Watson, clad in nothing more than a pair of swimming trunks and a towelled dressing gown. Sherlock arched an eyebrow.

"Going for a swim then, John?"

"What, is that a crime? I'm on holiday—no, sorry, I forgot. I'm 'emotional support'."

He turned to leave, but he was blocked by Mary, who had used Sherlock and the twins' conversation to pop to the toilet. On seeing John Watson, she stopped.

"Oh. Hello."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. So whilst he was currently trying to solve the thorny issue of bumping into his ex-wife (again), John Watson was finding love. Again.

John grinned at Mary, apparently oblivious to everything but her. "Hello."

"I'm Mary—Morstan. I'm a friend of Emma's. And Imogen's too, now. I guess."

"Mary's a great name. I'm John," he said, sticking out his hand. "John Watson."

It was with a gentle, approving glance that Mary took his hand and shook it. Sherlock shook his head and sighed.

"Anyway. Whilst they're busy having veiled conversations—"

"Hey!" John cried indignantly. Sherlock waved a dismissive hand, sitting up and looking alternately at his two daughters.

"You are both going to tell me why you tricked your mother into coming here. Come on. Out with it."

Emma and Imogen shared a look for a moment, and turned to their father. It was Emma who started it off.

"Dad, this—Mum's getting married."

The only response from Sherlock was a wall of silence.

"His name's Tom," Imogen said after a brief pause. "And oh Dad, but he's simply awful! We can't let her go through with it."

Emma nodded eagerly. "He's completely wrong for her—all he wants is her inheritance money!"

"He told me as such. And the only way she won't marry him is if… well, is if she sees you again."

Sherlock gave out a short laugh, making both Emma and Imogen jump as he swung himself up to a sitting position.

"As much as I admire your romanticism, it really doesn't matter if your mother has chosen to marry some matchstick copy or not. All of that is irrelevant. Completely and utterly irrelevant. After all, there was a reason your mother and I split up."

"Okay then—what was it?"

Sherlock scoffed, getting to his feet. He slowly began to pace. "I… I—it's irrelevant. What is relevant is the fact that Molly Hooper and I no longer have anything whatsoever in common. And this romantic fairy tale you two have spun for yourselves is exactly what it is: a fairy tale!"

Before anyone else could say anything more or even think about arguing his point, Sherlock swept from the room, pointedly making sure to slam the door behind him as he went.

A heavy, awkward silence fell on the remaining four, all of them exchanging glances and shrugging. John broke it with a soft and amused chuckle. Mary narrowed her eyes.

"What is it?"

"Nothing, just, err… That's the first time he's said her name in eleven years."


	12. Chapter 12

It had to be a hallucination. It just had to be. It was too much of a coincidence to be real.

Eleven years, no contact—not even a note—and all of a sudden, on the day she was to meet her fiancé's parents, _he_ had turned up at the very same hotel on the very same weekend. Yes. Far too much of a coincidence.

So why on earth was she wandering around the hotel looking for _him_ when she had a very lovely (and very naked) fiancé waiting for her upstairs in the hotel Honeymoon Suite? She should've been upstairs, frolicking in the bed sheets and yet here she was, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt with bare feet, jogging down corridors and looking into elevators like she was some sort of madwoman in a daze.

She should've just gone back to the Honeymoon Suite and forget she ever saw him. That's what she told herself. She told herself that again and again; especially when she darted outside to the pool, "just in case". Outside, sun loungers were lined around the poolside. Near to the harbour by the hotel restaurant, there was a small outside eating area. Both were equally busy.

Unluckily for her sanity, she couldn't see him in either of those places. By the poolside, she could see Emma—who had for some reason, changed her outfit—and she could see Mary, flirting outrageously with a greying blonde-haired man. Finally, she sighed. Maybe it would be best for her to just give up. Maybe it was just a hallucination. It was stress that was all. Brides-to-be always experienced varying degrees of stress anyway; the fact that it had manifested in hallucinations of her ex-husband was odd perhaps, but that's all it was. A hallucination. It would be best for her and everyone else if she went back to the suite and her waiting fiancé.

Tom's mother calling her name loudly pulled her from her thoughts. Fixing a smile to her lips, she quickly hurried over to their table in the eating area.

"Hello darling. Looking for anyone?" Vivian drawled, gesturing to the chair beside her. Molly smiled and sat down, tucking her hair behind her ear.

"No, no. Not at all. I was merely, uh, wandering. You know. Seeing the sights."

Vivian nodded slowly. "Of course. But now, to business."

"Business?" Molly said, frowning slightly.

"Yes—your wedding! Remember? Oh, it's no matter. We'll put it down to you being tired, shall we? Now, this hotel. Although it is quite close to the harbour, I think it'll be just perfect! The rooms are a good size, and the price is more than fair for what they're offering."

Molly tried a smile. If she might have compared Vivian to anything, it would be a machine gun. Fast, loud and completely relentless. Not sensing her future daughter-in-law's distracted state of mind, Vivian ploughed on, easily whipping through any and every subject she could think of that was related to the wedding. Molly found her gaze wandering, and despite her best efforts, she found she could not think of bouquets or buffets. All she could think about was an ashen, blue-eyed face staring, unabashedly, at her. She might not have paid it so much thought if she had only known what he was thinking. He had always been so unreadable, that was the problem. Or perhaps she had never been observant enough? Well, she had certainly observed him earlier. She'd seen every part of him, and it was almost scary how familiar it had all been. The dark curls, the eyes, the suits. It was like it had been imprinted on her mind, and however much she tried, she couldn't erase it. Not even after eleven years.

"Now, tell me darling," Vivian said, touching at Molly's arm and ignoring the way in which Molly flinched and looked at her with almost manically wide eyes. "How many are we expecting, from your side of the family? It doesn't have to be an exact number—just a guestimate. Of course, it would have to be fairly accurate. We don't want to hire a room which will be only half full, now do we?"

"No," Molly said quietly, still looking around at the poolside. "I don't suppose you do."

Right on the opposite side of the poolside, she saw the hotel doors swing open. Her heart caught.

Damn. That was her first thought. Damn, damn, damn!

It wasn't a hallucination. Or was it? No, it wasn't. The hotel staff wouldn't smile at a hallucination. He was a paying customer; flesh and blood. Vivian continued to chatter away, her husband now having joined in. Molly watched, transfixed as he moved forward and down the small flight of steps, smoothly slipping on a pair of dark sunglasses as he continued to walk around the poolside. Despite herself, she marvelled at how well he had turned out. He hadn't changed much—he'd filled out and grown his hair, but he was still the endlessly handsome man he'd always been. It both relieved and infuriated her.

She was on her feet in a flash. Leaving a now confused Vivian, she walked forward, keeping her gaze firmly fixed on him. Her hands raked at her hair, pulling at small knots and scrabbling to twist it around her shoulder. (Why was she doing that? She wasn't supposed to want to look pretty in front of him!) Groups passed her, but she gently squeezed past them, muttering "excuse me" and "sorry" to anyone who would listen. Unlike her, he deftly moved past anyone who came across his path, his pace quickening as a result. She had to catch up to him—she wanted to catch up to him. She pressed forward.

Sadly, in her determination, she became somewhat oblivious to anything that surrounded her. She especially became oblivious to the staff member quickly heading towards her. The staff member blurted out a warning, but it was too late. The two bodies collided; what little remained of Molly's balance was lost. Mary shouted out, Emma shouted out—even the greying blonde-haired man shouted out. It was too late, as Molly was already stumbling back, arms flailing in a windmill motion and with one final shout from Mary and a surprised yell from her, she fell into the pool with a large, loud splash.

* * *

The silence that followed was probably more embarrassing than the accident itself. Her hair and her clothes heavy with water—she now deeply regretted her choice to wear jeans today—she quietly swum to the edge of the pool, her cheeks burnt with a crimson red blush. She didn't have to look to know that Sherlock was stood in front of her, looking down and most likely smirking. With a sigh, she gripped at the edge and heaved herself up. A hand came into her peripheral view, and she looked up to see that her ex-husband was leaning towards her with not a smirk on his lips but a gentle smile, whilst his eyes shone with a playful—perhaps affectionate—kind of amusement. She decided to say nothing as she took a tight hold of his hand and pulled herself the rest of the way. (She also decided to ignore the small thrill that went up her spine when he touched at the lower part of her back to support her.)

Huffing slightly, she shook herself and stepped away. Eleven years, and here she was, soaked to the bone and blushing whilst he simply smirked.

She tried not to think of what that symbolised.

"Hi," she said quietly.

"Hello."

Silence fell on them again. She smiled and hugged herself tightly. Despite the warm temperature of the day, her short dip into the pool had more than slightly chilled her. He appeared to notice this—but of course, what _didn't_ he notice?—and he bent down to pick up a large towel before he unfolded it and gently set it over her shoulders.

"Thank you," she muttered, gazing around the pool once more. Mary and the greying blonde-haired man were now on their feet, watching the interaction between Sherlock and her.

"Um… is there something going on?" Molly asked finally. "Sorry for asking, but I'm beyond shocked to see you, and you… you're relatively blasé about this whole… thing."

Emma stepped forward, now back to her original outfit. Molly frowned. Okay. Strange.

"I suppose he is, isn't he? But Mum, I can explain that."

"Wait. Emma—you know who he is?"

"I do. And, uh… I'm not Emma," she said slowly, worrying at her bottom lip. Molly let out a breathy laugh, her hand flying to her mouth.

A second girl entered the fray—the _real_ Emma.

"And as you've probably guessed, I am," she said, tucking her hair behind her ear and grinning. Molly looked to Sherlock, back to the girl she now knew to be Imogen.

"So I've had Immy in Phoenix… all this time?"

Sherlock nodded once as he removed and pocketed his sunglasses. "It would seem so."

"It would seem great minds think alike," Imogen said. "Because you and Dad sent us to the same camp, and we met there, and everything… it sort of… spilled out, I guess, and we eventually ended up, well… here."

Molly's eyes widened as she smiled and drew her hand away from her face. She looked towards Emma.

"And you've been in London? In Baker Street?"

"Mm-hm. Honestly Mum, I have no idea why you let Dad go. He is amazing."

A smile crept onto Molly's face when she heard a small, almost nervous-sounding laugh come from the man standing beside her. Without hesitation, she ran towards her two daughters and scooped them into a hug, pulling them as close to her as she possibly could.

"So you're not angry?" Imogen said, causing Molly to laugh as she got back on her feet.

"Of course I'm not. I-I just can't believe you're together. That's all."

From behind her, she heard Sherlock step forward and she felt his hand press gently against her shoulder.

"Girls, why don't you let your mother and I talk for a bit, okay?"

Molly tried to ignore the knowing smile shared between her daughters as they quietly moved away. When he was fully sure they were out of earshot, Sherlock leant close to her ear.

"That's the trouble with marrying a consulting detective you know. You get geniuses."

"Yeah, thanks for the tip," Molly said dryly and she began to dab at her still damp skin, feeling Sherlock's hand draw away from her shoulder as she did so. Clearly though, her fall into the pool had been harder than she thought, seeing as when she accidentally brushed against her eyebrow, pain stung at her and she couldn't help but wince because of it. He was immediately in front of her, his hands gently touching at her face to examine the possible wound. He frowned.

"Hm. You'd better sit down."

"Look, I'm sure it's nothing, I'll just put a plaster on it or something— You really don't need to waste your time—"

Sherlock's hand on her upper arm stopped her and inside, she chided herself for letting her breath catch when they stared at one another.

"Molly," he said gently. "Believe me. It would not be a waste of my time."

She nodded and allowed herself to be sat down on a sun lounger. He situated himself on the opposite one and continued to examine her. (Something told her he was taking a little longer than he should've done, but she chose to dismiss that feeling.) After a while, he requested a First Aid kit from a passing staff member. When Molly asked why, he merely smiled and reassured her, saying it to be a precautionary measure. After that, she chose to remain quiet and watched him as he began to carefully tend to her one wound. Part of her said it was an awful lot of fuss for what was probably just a tiny cut, but another part of her didn't really care—just wished he'd continue.

"How have you been?"

The question was unexpected to say the least but she answered anyway.

"I'm fine. Phoenix is a nice place to be… getting by. And you're still a consulting detective?"

"As long the police are out of their depth, yes."

"So no chance of retirement," she said lightly and he flicked a grin at her.

"Not at all. Baker Street is much the same as it's always been, by the way—just in case you were wondering."

"Mrs Hudson still there?"

"Of course. In fact, I'm starting to think she's immortal," Sherlock muttered, to which Molly spluttered a laugh. Sherlock smiled. Eleven years and not one iota of her beauty had diminished. Carefully, he drew his hands away from her face. Her smile softened, and she gently reached forward.

"Who's immortal?" a cheery voice asked. Molly gasped, turning her head to see that Tom was stood over them, freshly showered and neatly dressed. She stood up a little straighter and her hands fell into her lap.

"No-one," she said brightly. Sherlock sighed softly and got to his feet. Tom turned his charming smile on him.

"Hi! I'm Tom. And uh, this'll sound weird, but have we met before? I could've sworn I recognise you from somewhere—"

"You probably do," Sherlock said, stuffing his hands into his trouser pockets. "I solved a case in America a few years back. Sadly, it was quite high profile."

"Case?" Tom asked, frowning. Molly laughed uneasily and stood up, pulling the towel tighter around her shoulders.

"Sorry, I should've said. Tom—this is Sherlock Holmes. He's a consulting detective."

Sherlock stepped forward, taking hold of Tom's outstretched hand. "The only one in the world."

"Oh," Tom said, raising his eyebrows slightly. "Impressive! At least I know where I've seen you before. You're the guy who knows everything, right?"

Sherlock's jaw tightened and his eyes momentarily scanned Tom. Molly watched him anxiously as his smile went cold. "Yes. I suppose I am. In fact I—"

He felt a sharp tug at the edge of his suit sleeve. He glanced down at Molly, who stared straight back at him, her eyes wide and saying just one thing: _Please don't do it. Don't deduce him. Please._

Tom failed spectacularly to note this silent conversation between the two of them and instead rubbed his hands together, still grinning inanely. "Okay, so. How do you and Molls know each other?"

'Molls'_._ She was the mother of his children, and even he didn't call her _Molls_. Molly opened and closed her mouth, biting at her bottom lip as she hesitated to give her answer. The situation was already skirting towards awkward, and she was not going to be the one to push it over the edge.

No—it was to be her daughters who took the plunge. Stepping forward to his right, Emma tugged at the hem of Tom's jacket.

"Hi Tom."

Tom didn't have a chance to turn his smile towards her before Imogen jumped up onto his left side.

"You okay?"

Jumping about a foot in the air, Tom let out a yelp of surprise. Molly cringed, glancing towards Sherlock who just smiled his trademark smirk. It dropped when she nudged quickly at him before she turned back to deal with a shocked Tom.

"I never mentioned that Em was a twin, did I?"

"No, I don't think you did," Tom said, his feathers quite clearly ruffled.

Emma beamed brightly at him.

"Don't worry—she never told me either. By the way, I'm the real Emma, if you hadn't guessed by now. This is Imogen, or as she prefers to be called, Immy. She pretended to be me, whilst I pretended to be her."

Emma paused to turn towards Sherlock. "And this is our father Sherlock Holmes."

"He's your father?" Tom asked, blinking slightly. Both Emma and Imogen nodded eagerly. He pointed to Molly.

"And you were married to him?"

"Oh, but it was only for a year—"

"Well!" Tom cried. "It is a small world."

"Unfortunately so," Sherlock murmured, scratching at the back of her neck.

"And what an amazing coincidence that we're all gathered here on the same weekend. Clearly some of us have been quite the busy bees, huh?" Tom said, glancing to the twins who skilfully decided to feign all innocence. Clearing his throat, Tom looked back to Molly.

"Anyway. It's kind of funny actually—all I was going to do was invite you out to dinner tonight. My parents want to go over the rest of the wedding with the two of us."

"Oh, thank you Tom, but I don't feel like going to dinner tonight. I need some time—it's been a busy day."

"Yeah. I can see that. I'll see you later Molls." Only stopping to drop a kiss on Molly's mouth, he departed. Without speaking a word, Sherlock glanced to her, eyebrow raised and an entertained smile. She only rolled her eyes at him, her still damp hair trailing over her eyes.

"Don't say anything," she said, failing to hide her smile. Sherlock laughed softly.

"I had no intention to."

"Yes you did," she retorted, finally removing the towel from her shoulders and putting it to one side. "Girls, I'll see you later."

Sherlock watched her leave, right up until the point the hotel exit doors swung shut and she was no longer in sight. His thoughts were broken by his daughters, who had begun to giggle. He turned towards them, his eyes narrowed.

"What?"

"You're still in love with her!" Emma blurted through her giggles.

"And she's still in love with you!" Imogen finished. Sighing, Sherlock pinched at the bridge of his nose.

"I'm not in love with your mother."

"Yes you are."

"Am not."

Imogen groaned. "Dad, you are. Admit it!"

"I will not!"

Emma raised a disbelieving eyebrow. "Okay then. Prove it. If you're not in love with Mum, then you'll have no problem with inviting her out to dinner."

"I can't invite her out to dinner—you heard what she said; she doesn't want to go out tonight."

"Correction: she didn't want to go out with Tom. She might say yes if you ask her."

"Think of it as an experiment," Imogen said. Sherlock stared at them for a brief time before he spun on his heels and advanced towards the hotel. Just an experiment, he told himself. That was all it was.

* * *

Molly didn't know quite why she had been so quick to refuse Tom's offer of dinner. She tried to tell herself it was because she hadn't wanted to make the situation even more awkward than it was before; but something continued to niggle at the back of her mind. Could it probably—just perhaps—have been because she rather wished to have stayed a little longer with Sherlock. He had been so gentle when he'd attended to her. But why? He couldn't… he couldn't still love her, could he? No. That wasn't possible—was it? But the way he'd stared at her! The last time she had been gazed at in such a way had been, well… when they'd been married. Not even her fiancé looked at her that way. He smiled at her, yes and he was attentive when she spoke to him, but he'd never had a smile that had made her actually feel like she was the only—and most important—person in the room.

But she couldn't base a relationship on one smile, could she? Eleven years ago, she had done exactly that—well, she hadn't done _exactly_ that, but she had done something awfully similar—and despite the fact that the relationship had created two beautiful little girls, she'd also ended up a divorced single mother before she was even 30. And now the very man who she had fallen head over heels for was back in her life, quite without warning and rather rudely bringing up all sorts of feelings in her head. If it was just one feeling, maybe she wouldn't have been so put out. But it wasn't—it was a multitude. Anger, for one. Attraction, for another. (It certainly didn't help that both emotions carried roughly the same symptoms with them.)

A rapid knock on her hotel door distracted her. With a sigh, she unfolded herself from the armchair she had curled up in and padded towards the door. The knock sounded again and as she pulled it open, she blinked. Sherlock was stood there, his hand uselessly hanging in the air from the interrupted knock. He swallowed slightly, dropping his hand to his side.

"I've been told I'm to invite you to dinner."

"Oh, alright. Well, I'm—I'm not busy."

A smile twitched at the edges of his lips, his blue eyes focused straight at her.

"Good. That's… good," he murmured before he immediately turned on his heels and stalked down the corridor, running his hand through his curls as he did. Molly shut her hotel door, leaning against it. She hugged herself tighter, biting mindlessly at the tip of her thumb and after a small moment of silence, she let out a giggle. Dinner, with Sherlock Holmes. Was it possible to be nervous and excited for something?

Even after all of these years, apparently it was.


	13. Chapter 13

If Sherlock Holmes was only ever allowed to get annoyed by two things in the whole world, it would be both a lack of knowledge and being delayed. The fact that his daughter knew this only served to put him at a disadvantage. As soon as he'd returned to their hotel suite after extending the invitation to dinner to Molly, he had found her with her phone clamped to her ear and cheerfully chattering. He was ready to dismiss it as he passed her to get ready, but when he heard the words "thanks Uncle," his haunches were up. From that moment on, he badgered her at any point he could, desperately deducing anything he could about her for a clue. Sadly, eleven years of living with him had made Imogen wise to his technique of observation, and she proved frustratingly deft at keeping her secret just that: secret. In fact, all he was allowed to know was that they definitely weren't having dinner at the hotel. It was with a low series of grumbles that he stomped off into his room to get changed.

When she was sure he was out of earshot, she brought the phone back to her ear. Her uncle's cool voice answered.

"He suspects nothing?"

"Not anything crucial, no."

Mycroft sighed lightly. "Good. I'll have Anthea text you the address."

* * *

Molly stood in front of the full-length mirror in her hotel bedroom and sighed for the hundredth time that evening. She spun slightly, gazing at herself and the dress she had chosen. This was her fourth outfit choice, and it still didn't seem right. She'd been daring, going for a dress she'd never usually have chosen. The front of it was demure enough—it was the back that she worried about. It dipped, stopping just about the lower part of her back, and the only thing that prevented it from sliding down her shoulders was a thick black ribbon across the middle of her back. Perhaps if she left her hair down… No. It was hopeless.

She reached around to undo it, but a light knock on the bedroom door stopped her. She turned to find that Tom was standing there, staring in a way that was less appreciative and more concerned.

"Changed your mind about dinner then?" he asked.

"No, I'm going out. With the girls. They insisted," she added when his frown deepened. He stepped forward and took a hold of her hand, bringing it up to his lips to kiss it before he covered it with his own hands, looking at her with that genial smile.

"Don't stay out too late, okay?"

She nodded, but she could feel her smile slipping as his widened. Another knock on the door broke the uneasy moment between them. Emma poked her head through the door.

"Oh. Hey Tom. Mum, are you ready to go?"

Nodding, Molly drew her hands from her fiance's, gathered up her small handbag and as she ushered Emma out of the hotel room, she didn't look back.

Meanwhile, Sherlock was stood at the hotel entrance and tapping out an unknown rhythm with his foot. God, but how he wished for a cigarette. Imogen, being far too smart for her own good, had already had John take the precaution of stealing his second packet and his lighter before they'd left the room. She'd claimed it would help him focus on the evening in hand. Right now, he had the temptation to disagree. Where was John anyway? Presumably off with Mary—it wouldn't have shocked anyone if that were true. Ever since their impromptu meeting in room 263, they had been rarely seen out of each other's company, the two of them indulging in some truly sickening displays of flirtation with one another. Typical John Watson. Jesus, but he needed a cigarette. Perhaps he could sneak away—

The hotel door swung open and Sherlock gulped back all and any thoughts of cigarettes as he focused on the woman who stood in front of him. Molly smiled innocently at him, patently unaware of the weight her fashion statement carried. The dress was as beautiful as he remembered, and that fact only served to annoy him. Couldn't it have had at least been eaten by moths in its eleven year lifetime? Why did it have to remain so… perfect?

Imogen frowned. "Dad, what's wrong?"

"There's nothing wrong Immy. It's just—that was my favourite dress of your mother's. You know, when we were married," he muttered, delving his hands into his pockets. Molly seemed to hear him, for she glanced down at her dress and immediately blushed.

"Oh—I can change if you want—"

"No you can't!" Emma insisted. "We can't miss our reservations."

"That's true," Imogen said with a serious nod, just as a smooth black car pulled up. A driver stepped out and opened the passenger door. Giggling, the girls dived inside. Molly however, hesitated. She looked to Sherlock, biting at her bottom lip.

"Are you sure you don't want me to get changed—?"

He lightly touched at the lower part of her back and smiled. "It's fine. I wouldn't have asked you to change anyway."

Her features softened as she finally relaxed and she stepped into the car. Sherlock swiftly followed.

* * *

The trip to wherever they were going was fairly long, and to try and wile away the time, Emma and Imogen decided to indulge in a game of 20 questions, the subject being (not surprisingly) their destination. Sherlock was just coming up to the 19th question when the car slowed to a stop and the door was opened. All of four of them stepped out to be greeted by a sea breeze and a row of expensive speedboats lined up against the docks.

"If this is where we're eating tonight," Sherlock remarked, "I might as well as have dressed as a fisherman."

Just as Molly choked back a laugh, Emma rolled her eyes.

"Of course we're not eating here. We're eating over _there_," she declared before she pointed straight at a very large, very expensive-looking yacht floating in the distance. She didn't leave any room for any more questions before she moved towards a waiting speedboat and stepped inside, Imogen boarding seconds after. After sharing a look, Sherlock and Molly duly followed suit.

"And how much did this cost exactly?" Molly asked.

"I'm guessing my brother chipped in," Sherlock replied, smiling. There was no reply from the twins however, as the speedboat was already making its way towards the yacht.

When they got there, they found that the yacht itself was beautiful, roughly 150 feet long, sleekly designed with only the very best fittings. Emma and Imogen giggled between themselves, whispering into each other's ears as they escorted their parents towards what Sherlock assumed to be the dining room. His assumption turned out to be right, and they stepped inside to find that a table stood in the centre of the room, already laid out with cutlery and freshly cleaned china, with candles and a single rose flower making up the centrepiece. Soft classical music played from two speakers fixed against the far wall. The only anomaly was the fact that only two chairs were present.

"So," Sherlock said as he turned towards his daughters. "You've decided not to join us?"

"No, we haven't," Emma said.

Imogen grinned. "We thought you could do with some quality time."

Molly sighed and raised her eyebrows but anything she had to say was stopped as the door opened and two more people joined them. With one being John and the other Mary, they wore the standard black and white uniform of waiters and each of them carried a tray, with Mary carrying what Sherlock recognised to be hors d'oeuvres and John carrying two glasses of champagne. Sherlock groaned.

"John, _really_?"

"They made me," he muttered, the tips of his ears growing pink as he proffered the tray to them. Molly stifled a giggle as both she and Sherlock took a champagne glass each and sipped at it.

"Have fun!" Emma called before she and Imogen quickly scurried from the room. Mary and John also made their excuses and departed. Sherlock and Molly, for the first time since meeting, were genuinely and quite privately alone. No falling into pools or interested fiancés to interrupt them.

It was awkward to say the least. Molly was the one to break it.

"Is it just me, or do I suddenly feel like a goldfish?" she asked, tapping her fingertips against the side of her glass. (He tried to ignore the tiny _chime_ that her engagement ring made.)

Sherlock chuckled and swigged back another gulp of champagne. "It's not just you. You realise this is the music that we played at our wedding?" he asked after a moment.

"I… I didn't until you mentioned it, no. Do you think it could be a massive coincidence?"

"Knowing our daughters? No. Not at all," he said, letting out another chuckle. Whether it was the result of nerves or something else, he didn't know. What he did know was how calm he felt when she joined in.

A muffled giggle caused the two of them to turn. Through the round windows of the doors to the kitchen were their daughters, who were both grinning at the sight of their parents together. Molly grinned and raised her glass to them in a mock toast. Imogen blushed and quickly ducked out of sight whilst Emma stubbornly stuck out her tongue and moved away. Molly looked back to Sherlock, a little unreadable smile on her lips.

"Thinking of something?" he asked, sipping at his champagne again.

"Yeah. Just how incredibly alike Emma is to you. She's… she's practically a carbon copy. As is Imogen, come to think of it—"

"No—Imogen is all you, believe me," Sherlock said quickly before he reached up to gently brush a stray hair back behind Molly's ear. He didn't have the chance however, as Molly quickly did it by herself and with a smile too bright to be real, she raised her glass.

"To our daughters."

"To our daughters," Sherlock echoed. Gulping back the rest of his drink, he followed on as Molly moved towards the table.

"You know," Molly said as she settled into her chair and laid a napkin across her lap, "it's kind of funny, how our lives have panned out. You're a consulting detective, like you always wanted to be and—"

"You're a forensic pathologist," Sherlock completed, just as Mary entered and set down two bowls of soup in front of them before she left with a quick smile and a wave.

"Thank you Mary," Molly said quickly before she turned back to Sherlock and began to eat as she resumed the conversation. "So we got we wanted in the end, I suppose."

The other statement she so desperately wanted to say didn't come. Instead it just hung there, unsaid but between them. So she did what she always did and brushed it aside.

"What do you think we should do about the girls?" she asked, a little too brightly for both her and Sherlock's liking. Her ex-husband shrugged.

"They've already met; it's hardly likely they'll want to be separated again."

"That's true. Perhaps we could each keep them for half of the year?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "And make them attend two different schools? I love my daughters, but I won't ruin their education."

"And neither will I!" Molly said defensively. "Do you have any ideas?"

Sherlock sighed and leaned back in his chair, gently twirling his empty champagne glass between his fingers.

"This was why we came up with… this, in the first place," he said eventually.

"Oh. I thought it was because we never wanted see each other again," Molly whispered. Sherlock's head flew up to look at her. It struck him at that moment just how sad her eyes were.

"I still think about that day. The day you moved out."

"It wasn't pretty was it?" She laughed softly, but there was no mirth behind it. "Not pretty at all. By the way, I um—I hope I didn't hurt you too much when I threw that, uh, book at you."

"_The Complete Works of Shakespeare._ And yes, it did hurt. Still does actually."

"Sorry."

"I wasn't talking about the book."

His statement was followed by a long bout of silence. Molly sighed heavily. She had thought it would be so easy. All she'd had to do was turn up, eat some dinner, make some small talk and be done with it. It was just unfortunate she'd forgotten just how Sherlock made her feel. With that intense blue-eyed gaze, she had felt secure and safe enough to marry him. And somehow, after a heated split and eleven years apart, his gaze still had that effect on her. She just couldn't help but feel as if she could say anything and he wouldn't judge her.

"You said you still think about it—that day, I mean. What do you think about?"

Sherlock breathed a sigh. "Well… mostly about _why_ it happened. Why you moved out. I can work out almost everything, but I still can't work that out."

"We both had fierce tempers back then Sherlock. You, me… we said stupid things. And I allowed it to hurt me I guess. Plus we were young—"

"And I suppose everyone has to grow up sometime," Sherlock murmured softly, stirring his spoon around his now cold bowl of soup. The smile Molly directed at him this time was sad. No—not sad. Something much more worse; it was wistful, the edges of her eyes tinged with tears.

"I suppose they do."

* * *

_**Hello! Thank you to everyone who has waited patiently for an update. I've been quite quiet lately, but that's because I've been squirreled away doing two 3,000 word essays in the space of about a week. So after lying down in a darkened room for quite a while after, here I am with an update! On another note, I've noticed that this story has reached over 100 followers, and I have to say, that is just amazing. Thank you!**_


	14. Chapter 14

The rest of the dinner passed by in a fairly boring manner. Despite this being an annoyance to their daughters, this was a great relief to both Sherlock and Molly. Once they were back at the hotel, they departed each other's company with cordial greetings and slipped back into their own rooms. Emma rolled her eyes, but followed her mother inside all the same, hugging Imogen goodnight as she did so.

It was Imogen however who—on shutting the room door behind her—kicked off her shoe and picked it up to aim it straight at her father's back. Feeling the shoe slam squarely between his shoulder blades, he twisted round to look at his daughter. The mixture of irritation and hurt was plain to see.

"You're an idiot," she declared. Sherlock opened his mouth to answer, but whatever answer he had was gone when Imogen rushed into her bedroom. Softly, he sighed and ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. It didn't help that Immy was completely right.

Inside her bedroom, Imogen sat on her bed and tapped out a text on her phone.

_Operation Switch is ON. – Immy_

The reply came barely 30 seconds later.

_Good. Meet you in room 261 at 9 o'clock tomorrow morning. I'll have everything ready. – Em_

* * *

It was either by coincidence or sheer force of Emma and Imogen's will that Sherlock ended up meeting his ex-wife at the reception desk when he went to check out. (Though he had to admit, there was a certain joy to be found in the fact that her fiancé couldn't be seen anywhere.)

"Morning," he said, clearing his throat a little as she began her own checking out process. A bill was placed in front of him, and he signed it off without thought.

"So we're agreed?" she asked after a moment, looking to him. He frowned.

"About Emma and Imogen?" she said. "You'll send Imogen over to me for Christmas—"

"And you send Emma to me for Easter," Sherlock finished with a small nod. "Seems sensible."

_Or as sensible as this situation gets_, he thought bitterly as he pulled his coat tighter around himself and turned to head back upstairs. At that exact moment, almost as if it had been planned the door to the elevator slid open and from across the room, Sherlock watched as Emma and Imogen stepped outside. In every sense of the word, they were identical. The same hairstyle, the same clothes and the same knowing smile.

"Oh no," Molly said from beside him. She didn't say anything else. She didn't have to; it was obvious what she was thinking, and it was more than obvious what was about to take place. Emma and Imogen, still wearing those knowing grins, came to an immediate stop in front of them. It was Immy who spoke first.

"Here's the thing: Emma and I have been talking, and we've come to the conclusion that despite all our efforts and hard work—"

"We're being conned," Emma finished. Sherlock sighed heavily, rolling his eyes towards the ceiling. He should've seen this coming—he really, really should have. It was inevitable.

"Conned?" he said. "You really think that?"

Imogen nodded. "Yep. But luckily, we have a solution." She turned to her twin. "Care to explain?"

"Our solution," Emma said, taking a step forward, "is that you, Mum and we two all go back to Napa Valley and go on the camping trip. At the end, we'll tell you which one's Em and which one's Immy."

Sherlock's brows furrowed as he looked to Molly. "Camping trip?"

"It's one Emma and I take every summer when we visit my parents," she explained quickly before she looked back to the twins, focusing on Emma. "Now Em, come on. We'll miss our plane."

"Em?" Emma said, sounding eerily like Imogen. In fact, it was impossible to tell if she really was Imogen or just playing. He looked once more to his daughters, crouching down in front of them to study them. Both of them were remarkably impassive, their expressions and features a mirror of one another. _Damn they're good_, Sherlock thought but he quickly brushed the thought away when Molly scowled at him and he realised he had let out an appreciative chuckle. Finally, he pointed to Imogen—no, Emma.

"You're Imogen," he declared. "I'm sure of it."

The one he'd marked as Imogen raised an eyebrow. "Absolutely sure?" Now she sounded exactly like Emma. His smile sunk into a frown.

"Fine. You," he said, pointing to the other twin. "You're Imogen." Yes, she definitely was. She had to be.

She merely smiled. "I do hope you're correct Dad. Because—"

"You couldn't send the wrong twin all the way to England—"

"Now could you?"

Exactly the same. The same inflections, the same rise and fall, the same teasing tone of voice… His playful warning to Molly about marrying a consulting detective was ringing completely and annoyingly true. With a sigh, he straightened up and turned to Molly, who looked like she was trying to figure out whether to be annoyed or amused by the antics of her daughters.

The elevator doors pinged open yet again, and out stepped Tom, looking far too happy to be leaving. That same happy grin was quickly wiped away when he moved forward and saw the situation in front of him.

"Molls? What's happening?"

Molly hesitated to answer, pressing a finger to her lips. Finally, she let out a breath and turned to face him. This was going to take quite a bit of explaining.

* * *

John rolled his eyes as he continued to load the back of the car with the help of Mary, who was perhaps more jovial than him. (Provided by Molly's parents, it was a Land Rover Defender, a brand new model. "Newly bought," they'd said proudly.)

The reason for John's current mood was clear. Three days ago, they, the twins, Sherlock, Molly and Tom had arrived at the vineyard of Molly's parents and for three solid days, Tom had not ceased complaining. Now it was the day of departure, and the level of whining had reached painful. Like an puppy that yaps all the time, Tom followed his fiancée everywhere as she prepared for the trip, a sadly unstoppable stream of complaints flowing from his mouth.

_What am I supposed to do Molly? Sit at home whilst you go gallivanting into the mountains? It isn't fair Molly!_

The complaining had only increased when he'd learnt of who would be accompanying her.

_Your ex-husband, Molly? What possible reason could there be for him accompanying you? What, the twins insisted? Why didn't you say no? I mean, they're great kids and they behave really well_—yeah, like he believed that, John had scoffed to Mary; it was obvious Tom loathed the very look of them—_but you've gotta admit it! A woman going camping with her kids and her ex is too weird!_

"It's amazing what one person can find to complain about," Mary said as she loaded a sleeping bag onto the boot. John flicked a grin at her.

"If he keeps it up, he might get into the record books," he said as he shut the car boot, causing Mary to burst out a laugh.

"Everything ready?" Molly called brightly from the balcony above them.

Mary gave her the thumbs up. "All we need are the passengers and the driver!"

"Great—I'll get the girls." Molly dove back into the house. Mary watched her leave and sighed, shaking her head slightly. Anyone else might've been nervous to be going on a camping trip with her ex-husband, but Molly seemed to be positively relishing the challenge.

After a few moments, she reappeared, followed by Emma and Imogen who had chosen to keep up the practice of wearing the same clothes as one another. The only obvious difference was the way in which one of their necks was bare and the other wore a red and white paisley scarf, tied loosely with a bow. Both John and Mary said their goodbyes, wished them well and headed up the stairs towards the balcony. Sherlock passed them, now out of his signature suits and instead dressed in a blue shirt, white t-shirt and jeans with proper hiking boots. Hanging from a shoulder was a rucksack. He grinned as Molly waved at him.

"I assume everyone's ready?" he said as he descended the stairs. Molly nodded, holding open the door for Imogen and Emma to clamber into the back and closing it behind them.

"They're looking forward to the trip," she said. "How about you?"

Sherlock shrugged as he slid the rucksack from his shoulder. "I'm looking forward to hearing how it unfolds, yes."

For a moment Molly's brows furrowed in confusion, but as she watched Sherlock's lips form into a grin and heard Tom call her name from behind, her features tightened into a false smile as she realised. At least now she knew where their daughters got their penchant for scheming from.

"Oh," was all she said. "Well, that's—that's great. I guess it'll be good for Tom to get to know the girls."

"Exactly what I was thinking," Sherlock said, calling her bluff. With a grin, he offered the rucksack out to her. She didn't take it, her eyes still staring daggers at him and her smile still tight.

"Hey, Molls!" Tom chirped, jogging over to her and planting a kiss on her cheek as if the last three days had never happened. She directed a brief smile at him, but her eyes remained on Sherlock.

"You ready to go?" Tom said after a moment, nudging her slightly. Molly finally broke her gaze and she smiled at her fiancé.

"Of course I am. Couldn't be more excited!" she said with a light laugh before she practically wrenched the rucksack from Sherlock's fingers and stepped into the car, winding the window down. Inside the car, the girls audibly groaned as Tom clambered into the passenger side.

"Dad!" Imogen whined. "This wasn't part of the plan!"

"I know," Sherlock said, mock sympathetically. "But I'm sure you'll find other ways to have lots of fun."

In the back, Emma and Imogen shared a smile as they realised what this meant. Tom however, went practically ashen.

"Wait—I don't think I can go after all— I'm not a great 'outdoors' guy…"

"No," Sherlock said with a faux charming smile. "I insist. You need to get know the girls after all. Starting next week—isn't it next week? Or is it the week after that?"

"It's next week," Molly said, teeth gritted and her knuckles white as she gripped the steering wheel.

"Ah! Right first time. Of course. So yes, starting next week… they're half yours."

Tom's face fell as he glanced to Emma and Imogen, who were talking quietly to one another, looking for all the world like they were up to something. He gulped loudly, but Molly merely smiled at her ex-husband as she started the car. Sherlock stepped back and waved brightly.

"Have fun!" he called.

If she could've swore, she would've. Instead, Molly pulled away and Sherlock watched as the car made its way down the dusty path. Up on the balcony, John—who along with Mary had watched this whole exchange with a delighted glee—turned to his companion.

"Bet you he doesn't even make it a day."

"And what's the bet for? You haven't got any money," Mary pointed out. John grinned.

"I can think of something."

* * *

Tom flopped against a tree and began to pant heavily. He shed his rucksack and leaned against his chosen perch, swiping sweat away from his brow.

"How… far… are… we?"

"We've done almost a mile from the parking site," Molly said as she sat on a small rock and took a sip of her water. Tom groaned, but Molly smiled what she hoped was an encouraging smile.

"Don't worry—you're doing really well. We'll get there."

If Tom heard her, he didn't make mention of it. He was still too focused on the business of taking large, dramatic gulps of air.

"Oh, are we stopping again?" Imogen asked as she appeared from the depths of the forest. Emma joined her soon after and after seeing Tom still taking heavy breaths, she rolled her eyes.

"Really? At this rate, it'll take three days just to get to the damn lake."

"Em, be nice. Tom isn't used to this altitude."

Emma crossed her arms over her chest, aiming a disbelieving look at her mother. "Neither's Immy, and she's fine. Anyway, this is hardly the Himalayas."

"Oh hush," Molly said, hiding her smile. "We can afford to wait for five minutes."

"I'm going to need a bit more than five minutes Molls," Tom confessed, before he held out his hand. When no-one did anything, he looked to Imogen.

"Get my water!" he said, as if it was entirely obvious. Imogen sighed but got the water anyway. Meanwhile, Tom continued to speak. For someone as tired he claimed to be, he could moan an awful lot.

"God, my side hurts. I can't believe you do this every year. And for fun? How aren't you dead yet?" He was cut off by Imogen shoving his water bottle in his direction. Letting out a relieved gasp, he grabbed it from her fingers and put it to his mouth, only to let a high-pitched shriek and toss it to one another, spraying a nearby rock with water.

The cause of his terror—a tiny, harmless lizard that Imogen may or may not have put there—happily scampered across the forest floor. Molly, who had jumped to her feet on hearing her fiancé's distress, let out a laugh and picked it up.

"It's just a lizard—it can't hurt you."

"How do you know?" he asked quickly, gingerly picking up his water bottle.

"Would I pick it up if I didn't?" Molly said with another encouraging smile before she set the lizard down on a nearby rock. "Now come on—we've got to get moving."

"I know, I know. But you go on ahead, I'll join you."

Molly nodded and duly continued on her way. Both Emma and Imogen attempted to skirt past Tom, but they were stopped by his throwing out his arm. Slowly, he turned on them, his features dark.

"Here's the thing, _kids_. From next week, I am going to be your stepdad. Believe me, the prospect of having you two in my life for the foreseeable future is not something I envisioned for myself. But here's a promise: If you don't stop being the spoiled brats that you are, then I'll be packing you off to boarding school on the day of the wedding. Got it?"

There was a long silence as the two girls eyeballed him.

"How can we be something we're not?" Emma asked finally. Tom snorted derisively as his lips curled into a smug grin.

"Watch and learn," he said before he pushed past them. It only took a nod from Imogen for Emma to pick up the lizard, deftly clamber onto a rock and drop the lizard straight onto the nest of curls Tom called a haircut.

"Em!" Molly called suddenly, her voice echoing from the distance. "Immy! Come on! We've got a lot of distance to—"

The rest of what she had to say was stopped by another loud, piercing shriek from Tom as the lizard, confused by its sudden journey from forest floor to human hair, quickly crawled down the front of his face. Imogen and Emma quickly dove behind a tree as Tom continued to shriek before he eventually grabbed hold of the lizard and threw it onto the forest floor, just as Molly appeared, running towards him.

"Is everything okay? What happened? Are you—" She stopped as her eyes latched onto the lizard which was now beginning to crawl up the side of a large rock. Her eyes rolled as she let out a heavy sigh.

"_Girls!_"

Slowly, Emma and Imogen stepped out from behind the tree. Their faces were the picture of innocence.

"We were right behind you," Emma said sweetly. "Promise."

Although that was blatantly a lie, Molly knew there was no real point in arguing. They had been delayed enough already, and it was better if she just focused on trying to get everyone to the lake. She turned and continued back down the rugged path, Tom following on. As they passed the still smiling Imogen and Emma however, Tom made sure to quickly stamp on Emma's foot, causing her to jump about a foot in the air.

"_Ow!_" she hissed as she gently rubbed her now sore toes, leaning on her sister for support. Imogen glared at a retreating Tom's back.

"Operation Rock-a-Bye?" she said quietly as she steered a still hopping Emma down the path. Her sister nodded.

"Operation Rock-a-Bye," she echoed. "He deserves it."


	15. Chapter 15

_**Author's Note: **My plan was to post this tomorrow, but eh. *shrugs* I guess I wanted to treat you. Enjoy!_

* * *

They really had been lucky to reach the lake by nightfall. The moon was at its brightest, the stars were out in force and they'd been able to catch enough fish to last them both supper and breakfast. Tom however, was unable to appreciate the beauty of the nature around him as he was far too preoccupied with complaining bitterly about it. First it was too cold (it wasn't). Second, it was too quiet. Thirdly, it was too dark. For the first hour, Molly endured all of this was the same sweetness she treated everything with but as the time crawled slowly into the second hour and Tom still continued to complain, her smile had almost completely vanished and the only replies she gave were a series of automatic, default responses: "I know", "yes" or "it'll be better in the morning".

She found herself wondering what it would've been like if Sherlock had accompanied them. She knew she shouldn't have been doing it, but after two hours of hearing the same cycle of moaning, her mind had begun to wander. She didn't want it to wander, but wander it did.

Sherlock definitely wouldn't whine, she decided that early on. Perhaps a few sardonic remarks, followed by a smile that told her he didn't mind really. He was tough like that. Always had been.

She thought about when she had met him. It had been at university and of course, she'd noticed him before he'd noticed her. She'd watched as he'd embroil the increasingly frustrated lecturer in debate after debate. Some might have found this annoying—one student had even tried to get him thrown off the course at one point—but Molly found it enchanting.

She found it enchanting for a number of reasons. His voice was one (she could listen to that voice all day), but the main reason she loved listening to him was because unlike some of the more pretentious of their fellow learners, he actually had something to say. He didn't just parrot what he was told; he thought and spoke for himself.

She had that same quality, he'd told her on the night they'd finally got together. She did it in a quieter way to him, but that only served to make him more interested in her. That's what he'd called her: a puzzle—but one he couldn't solve. It both irritated and fascinated him, he'd claimed. She supposed some might think being called an unsolvable puzzle was offensive, but she didn't. She found it… funny almost, considering that when he looked at her, she felt like she was an open book and he could read her almost any way he wanted.

She supposed that was the reason they didn't work. They were both so fixated on trying to figure out one another, they forgot how to actually talk to each other. So by the end they ended up screaming at each other until finally, they'd ended up in an office and signing divorce papers. A year, they had lasted. A _year_. Surely, that said everything. It would be useless, trying to get back together again. Wouldn't it? After all, they were older now; hopefully they were wiser too.

Plus nothing had really changed between them—their dynamic was still the same. She thought back to how he had acted around her before they'd left for the camping trip. He'd been calm, loose, joking and teasing her as he pleased. And what about the time they'd met? There she'd been, soaking wet from the pool and he'd simply smiled and looked after her. There had been no malice; no hatred (for either of them). There was—there was _something_, but definitely not hatred.

"I said goodnight." Tom's voice tugged her from her thoughts. She looked to him with a distracted smile.

"Oh. Good—_umph!_" Anything else she had to say was gone as Tom deepened his sudden embrace. Molly had to admit: she felt a little light-headed. Though whether that was from the kiss or the surprise of it, she didn't know. Pleased with himself, Tom pulled away and stepped towards and inside his tent.

"And you're marrying him because…?" Imogen asked.

Molly spluttered slightly. "Well, I—I'm not marrying him because he's… Brad Pitt or anything! That's for certain."

"That's not an answer," Emma said pointedly. For a long moment, Molly stayed silent. She could still feel Tom's kiss on her lips, jumbled with her thoughts about Sherlock. Sighing, she pressed her fingers to her temple before she got to her feet and kissed both Emma and Imogen on the foreheads.

"Go to sleep you two. It's going to get colder." Pulling her scarf tighter around her neck, she moved towards her tent and stepped inside.

* * *

They waited until early morning. As quietly as possible, they climbed into their clothes and stepped out of their tent, tiptoeing towards Tom's tent. When they stepped inside, they found him deeply asleep and snoring, a hoodie over his pyjamas and wrapped up in his blankets.

Still remaining silent, Emma and Imogen positioned themselves at Tom's head and feet and with all of their combined strength, lifted him up and dragged him from the tent towards the water's edge.

"Mum would kill us if she knew we were doing this," Imogen whispered, but Emma shook her head.

"No way. Did you _see_ her tonight? At this point, she'd probably help us!" Emma hissed, to which Imogen let out a bark of a laugh. Tom jerked upright, bleary-eyed and barely awake. Both Imogen and Emma froze, barely able to breathe. They only started breathing when he mumbled incoherently and dropped back onto the mattress, deeply asleep once more.

"Did he just say '_money_'?" Imogen asked softly, her voice barely higher than a low murmur.

Emma nodded. "Mm-hm. Says everything, don't you think?"

Now even quieter than before, they continued to drag him towards the water before they finally pushed him off and onto the water, watching as he slowly and gently floated away.

* * *

The sun was warm on his chest. So very warm. He muttered sleepily to himself and dropped his hand to his side. His fingers traced delicately against cool water.

His eyes flew open. Okay. Water. That wasn't right. Why could he feel water? Was it a flood? Cautiously, he sat up. At first, ripples of water were all he could see. In the distance, he saw three tents on the shore. That was when he realised. It wasn't a flood—he, Tom Locke, was floating in the middle of the lake.

Rage boiled up inside of him as he continued to look around him. It continued to swell up until it released in the form of one angry roar.

"_MOLLY!_"

Inside her tent, Molly jerked awake. Had someone called her? And why were they shouting? Groaning from sleepiness, she wriggled out of her sleeping bag and stood up, pulling a jumper over herself as she stepped out into the bright sunlight.

She saw it. Barely a mile from the shore, there was Tom, sat on his air mattress, face red with anger as he floated on the water. She could almost hear Sherlock's amused laughter now.

"Tom!" she called. "Don't move! We'll get some help—just calm down!"

"Calm down?! I'M IN THE MIDDLE OF A LAKE!"

Face almost puce with rage, he struggled to his feet, wobbling precariously.

"No, Tom! Wait, I'll—"

It was too late. He'd already fallen backwards into the lake with a hollering shout, water spraying everywhere. Molly sighed, but she could do little else but watch as a spluttering Tom swam towards the shore. She rushed forward to help, trying to take hold of his hand, but he viciously shook her away, wiping at his eyes and shivering.

"You're cold; let me get you a towel—"

"Of course I'm cold!" Tom snapped. "I've just been in the bloody lake! And all thanks to your daughters!"

"Tom that's not fair—"

"It is fair! I obviously didn't do it myself!"

"It was just a little prank, you were barely a mile from the shore—"

"That doesn't matter Molly!" Tom exploded at her, spit flying from his mouth. "What matters is that those megalomaniacal little _freaks_ you call your daughters almost killed me! I swear Molly, those two! When we get married, those two are going straight to a boarding school in Switzerland or Timbuktu, I frankly don't care! Just as long as you and your money are safe from them and that idiotic ex-husband of yours!"

An awful silence fell on the scene. Molly glanced over to her daughters, who had risen from their slumber and were watching their mother, crestfallen. Slowly, Molly nodded.

"Right. Let me get this straight. You want to send my children off to boarding school?"

"Mm-hm!"

"So you and I can spend my inheritance in safety?"

"Exactly!"

"Because you believe my daughters to be megalomaniacal little freaks?"

Tom nodded vigorously. "That just about sums it up!"

Again, Molly nodded.

"Right. Okay then." The punch she aimed at Tom's face was swift. He crumpled to the ground, clutching his now bleeding nose and whimpering. Molly, eyes flashing with anger, slipped her ring from her finger and threw it squarely at his forehead. She turned towards the girls.

"Get packing," she said shortly before she stomped back towards her tent.

As Tom continued to whimper, Emma turned to her sister.

"Remind me never to upset Mum."


End file.
